


Apocalypse Reboot

by frostian



Category: Good Omens, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover with characters from Good Omens., Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23505457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostian/pseuds/frostian
Summary: The Winchesters discover the plural term for the Apocalypse. They are not amused. Neither are Crowley and Aziraphale who must help them stop all of God's creation from becoming undone.
Relationships: None
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Three Years Ago**

Scholars of past and present have fiercely debated about two passages in the Bible:

1\. In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. (Genesis 1:1)  
2\. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. (John 1:1)

Some say John was correct. Others would argue John was a contradictory bastard (which goes a long way to prove Jesus had not only great patience but also a sense of humor) and that he wanted to have the last say about the first act of God. The naysayers would then shoot back: what is this ‘Word’ then, eh?

Here are some of the documented responses:

1\. We are not worthy enough to know this ‘Word’.  
2\. God is ineffable. A response favored by a certain monk in Canterbury who had great affinity for correcting books under his personage, much to the vexation of the archbishop.  
3\. W-Y-R-D-E as offered by one Alfred Doodleday of Bubbling Brooks, Shropshire. This explanation was summarily dismissed by the locals and the Church as Alfred was a member of a family with dubious reputations regarding their love of sheep: a trait not so abhorred in the fifteenth century as it was considered a ‘lively quirk’.

Religious scholars would be chagrined to note that the drunken lout with rather strange leanings towards barnyard companions was the closest with his estimation, though W-Y-R-D-E is technically incorrect. However, in spite of being a complete tosser, Doodleday had a bright line towards the Great Ineffability. That there was actually a ‘Word’ floating out there that helped Creation come about.

What he didn't know was the following.

After creating then wielding this ‘Word’, God created the ‘UnWord’. A litany of sounds that when spoken aloud would undo all of Creation, leaving not an empty space since emptiness indicated a presence whose absence will be noticed. Instead, there would only be a void which shows there never was anything to begin with.

This ‘UnWord’ was only heard by human ears once, and since Mrs. Winifred Elliot was half deaf, it took some doing for her to mark it down. According to one lore, she stitched the entire thing on seventeen separate pieces of fabric. You see, she was a seamstress of some note during the sixteenth century, and though London wasn’t rich in paper, it had more than its fair share of fabrics for its numerous seamstresses. After all, the wealthy merchant husbands (and great number of the clergy) had many to clothe: their wives, children, and mistresses.

By doing this the gifted seamstress had accidentally prevented unraveling all of Creation, as she had misplaced all seventeen swatches, and would find them through the years scattered around her workshop. Mrs. Elliot would eventually discover a more profitable way to earn a living, as she used her knowledge of who bought what for who to slyly blackmail her numerous clients. Having thus earned a comfortable living in her later years, Mrs. Elliot decided to sew a book together using the seventeen pieces of fabric, as London was still suffering from paper shortage.

Mrs. Elliot finished this masterpiece of stitchwork at 9:12 in the morning, which allowed her another fine drink at the local establishment. She would have done better to have finished it after supper. Completely inebriated with honeyed mead by noon, Mrs. Elliot set out for home only to be run over by an oxen-driven cart.

It was duly noted that her death was both slow and painful.

Having no heirs, her belongings were promptly stolen, divided, or just mysteriously vanished. Her greatest creation was the victim of the last fate. That was until it resurfaced and was sold off by a small auction house in Bath in September of 2006. It was bought by one Mr. Bruce Lee from Templeton, Texas: a postal worker whose unfortunate moniker was due to his parents never watching a movie. Ever.

A normal, socialized human being would look at the stitched book and wonder what kind of drug Mrs. Elliot had taken while creating the bizarre thing, but Mr. Lee was not such a man. He had a great affinity for puzzles, and Mrs. Elliot’s book offered a novel challenge. And a nice break from Sudoku Extreme.

Creation has three years twelve days and thirty-four minutes, more or less, to stop Bruce Lee from speaking the ‘UnWord’ loudly and by doing so negating all of existence from Day One.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters discover the plural term for the Apocalypse. They are not amused. Neither are Crowley and Aziraphale who must help them stop all of God's creation from becoming undone.

Aziraphale smothered an exasperated sigh as he watched two tourists browse through his books. The angel had honestly believed that moving his store from London to the calmer waters of Whoppings, a small town outside of Oxford, would guarantee the least amount of foot traffic. And it was from the garish eighties through the puzzling nineties.

All that changed with the Millennium. And the internet. Aziraphale had no idea there were so many websites dedicated to bookstores, and that his ranked one of the highest in all of Britain. Initially, the owner of _Words Undiscovered_ was flattered. However, it hadn’t taken long for his feelings to sour somewhat. Angels, as a rule, didn’t harbor too many negative feelings. And Aziraphale was less passionate than his peers, anyway. But that didn’t stop him from interfering with websites recommending his bookstore, and on occasion, ensuring that the host servers be blitzed with myriad of problems.

The Japanese couple picked through some more shelves before speaking with each other, concluding their soft conversation with a collective shake of their heads. He gave a mental sigh of relief as they left; the tinny music of the bells above the door signaling their departure.

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale said diplomatically and turned the ‘Open’ sign around to ‘Closed’. Never mind that it was only two in the afternoon; since he was the proprietor he was able to enjoy certain perks, including determining when the store is open for business, which he’d prefer to be never, truth be told.

Aziraphale heated up tea, a vice he’d acquired after the little ... big incident regarding the almost-Apocalypse triggered by a youthful Antichrist-in-the-making then living in Tadfield. Aziraphale’s comrade-in-arms, a demon named Crowley, had informed him Adam was happily living in bucolic town, still. Aziraphale dared not ask any questions. He hands still got clammy whenever he thought about Adam and how close the little Antichrist had gotten to bringing forth Armageddon.

His cell rang, which was puzzling since Aziraphale never connected the phone to a service. He just liked having a soothing blue thing around his person. With a slight frown, he opened the cell and said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Angel,” was the melodic answer.

“Oh, it’s you,” Aziraphale said in a wary tone. “What is it now? You want me…”

“We have a problem,” Crowley rushed in breathlessly. “Very bad one, in fact.”

Aziraphale felt his spine stiffen and his invisible wings flutter behind him. “What is it? Has Adam done something?”

“I wish it were that simple.”

The answer was enough for Aziraphale to hurriedly down his tea.

“I just heard the Elliot Book has been found.”

Aziraphale’s wings cramped and nearly clocked his head. “What?’ he whispered, appalled. “Who told you?”

“Not told, exactly,” Crowley hedged. “More like ordered. From Down Below.”

“You don’t mean…”

“Most certainly,” Crowley confirmed. “After He was crammed back into Hell, he’s been itching to stir up as much trouble as possible for humans. Not that I can blame Him, mind you.”

“Crowley, focus!” Aziraphale snapped. “What about the book?”

“I’ve been told to aid in the Glorious Undoing,” Crowley said conspiratorially. “And that an American has gotten his hands on the Stitched Words.”

“But that doesn’t mean he can do anything,” Aziraphale countered lamely. “Especially Americans. Not that I have anything against them, but they hardly understand their own grammar much less ours.”

“Angel, I’m only telling you what I’ve heard, and the orders came from the very top,” Crowley said patiently, though his ‘s’ was becoming more sibilant.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale moaned. “I’ve heard nothing about this at all.”

“That’s because your side is in no way involved with the damned thing,” Crowley said. “It’s one thing to trigger the Armageddon, but to undo all of God’s work? Even some of my compatriots aren’t happy to be completely erased.”

Aziraphale paused to consider that little tidbit of information. “Do we have any room to maneuver?”

"Some,” Crowley hedged, “but not much.”

“So, what’s your plan?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Being undone with the rest of Creation will give me the will power to stomach whatever you have in mind.”

“We have to go over there and find help.” Crowley took a deep breath. “We need the Winchester family.”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale’s dismay was clear even over the airwaves. “Not _them_! They started the Apocalypse! They let Lucifer free!”

“They also stopped it, Angel,” Crowley argued. “Besides, who else do you know who can deal with the American landscape?”

“I know of one,” Aziraphale offered hesitantly. “An angel named Castiel.”

“Well, call him then. We need all the help we can get.”

“Um, there’s a slight problem,” Aziraphale admitted. “We lost track of him after the Great Shove.”

“The great shove?” Crowley echoed. “Oh, you mean when the Winchesters…”

“Yes.” Aziraphale couldn’t help sounding defensive. “We were in a rush to name the beautiful…”

“About Castiel?”

“Oh, well, he disappeared.”

“Why? Wasn’t he directly involved with trapping my … superior?”

“Yes, and that should have earned him complete forgiveness, even from Zachariah.”

“Forgiveness? Oh dear, what did the child do?” Crowley asked, sly humor insinuating into his tone.

“He … well, he disobeyed some orders and decided to go off on his own, but the young ones are prone to do that, especially when something important as the Apocalypse is concerned.”

“I see,” Crowley said, humor all gone. “Zachariah, there’s a name I never wanted to hear.”

“You’re not alone in your opinion,” Aziraphale agreed. “So, Castiel has disappeared and we have not heard from him since the Great Shove. I’ve heard rumors that Dean Winchester still talks to him on occasion, but I can’t be sure.”

“Then we really have no choice, do we, Angel?”

“No, guess not.” Aziraphale looked woefully at his bookshop. “So, when?”

“Now would be good.”

Before Aziraphale could reply, Crowley materialized right next to him. As usual, he was decked out in the latest fashion, along with a new watch made of materials unknown to the CIA, and which kept time for thirty-seven countries, including the all-important time for Below.

“Ready to take a jaunt in the Colonies?” Crowley asked, looking at Aziraphale’s hopelessly outdated tweed pants and white Oxford that looked like it was boiled three hundred times too many in hot washes.

“I think they stopped calling it the Colonies when they won the Revolutionary War,” Aziraphale replied dryly.

“They cheated, you know.” Crowley countered.

Aziraphale looked puzzled by his companion’s remark. “How?”

“George Washington, the bastard was more devious than Hastur thought. Won the bloody war by beating him at a card game.”

“So, _he_ cheated. Not the entire Continental Army.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale appraisingly. “You are a fan of them?”

“I admire their … tenacity.”

“We do a booming business with them.”

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale snapped, “you do brisk business everywhere, Crowley, but we really need to find the … the Winchesters.”

“Why do you have such a hard time accepting they stopped the Apocalypse?”

“I have a hard time accepting the fact that there was another Apocalypse so soon after Tadfield,” Aziraphale confessed. “You’d think they would’ve learned, don’t you?”

“Not at all,” Crowley said. “That’s them being human, which is why I think both you and I have a hard time with all this.”

Aziraphale looked thoughtfully at Crowley. “You surprise me.”

Crowley gave a crooked smile. “Glad to know that I still can after thousands of years.”

“So, do you know where the … the Winchesters are?”

“Roundup, Montana,” Crowley replied promptly.

“Lovely name,” Aziraphale replied weakly.

* * *

  
**Roundup, Montana**

Dean yawned as he poured a cup of lukewarm coffee. “Why are we here again?”

“Look, the deaths…”

There was no thunder, no flash, nothing to warn the Winchester brothers of the two entities who suddenly appeared in front of them.

Sam’s first reaction was to grab Dean in order to stop him from tackling the intruders.

The smaller, rather inconsequential looking man raised his hands and said, “We come in peace!”

The taller one who looked like a character from a television show about overpaid surgeons said, “Ignore him,” with a roll of his eyes.

Sam snarled out few words and the second man disappeared. The shorter one studied the empty space where his companion had stood only moments before. “Oh, dear.”

“You’re not a demon?” Sam asked, surprised by the man’s continued presence.

“No, he isn’t,” Dean said slowly. “He’s an angel.”

Sam looked at his brother. “Really?”

“Yeah, so what is he doing with a demon?”

“There’s an Apocalypse?” Aziraphale supplied hopefully.

“You didn’t say Apocalypse,” Dean stuttered loudly. “I couldn’t have heard that right. Sam?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, he did. But he can’t be right.”

“I’m sorry to say there’s an Apo…”

Crowley rematerialized. “That was rude! I didn’t do anything!” He turned to Sam and barked, “And you’re not suppose to have any powers left!”

Sam paled a little and Dean yelled back, “That’s none of your business!”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Everything’s my business, Mr. Winchester: it’s in my job description.”

“What are you?” Sam asked.

“Demon,” Aziraphale answered, “but he’s one of … well, you could consider him to be on our side.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Dean said, glaring at the angel. “I learned the hard way that having angels and demons on my side is about the worst possible news.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” Aziraphale said. “I am so sorry about the mis … miscommunication.”

“Oh, is that what you call when you try to force a person to become an angel condom?" Dean couldn't have sounded more sarcastic if he'd tried. "I call it something else.”

“Zachariah was heavy-handed, but we’re not like that,” Aziraphale replied. “And we’re desperate.”

“Desperate enough to seek your help.” Crowley paused then added, “That should tell you something.”

Sam sighed and placed a restraining hand on his brother. “We should hear them out.”

Dean immediately deflated. He crashed onto his bed and said, “Okay, so this Apocalypse?”

Aziraphale looked pleadingly at his companion who gave a frustrated sigh and said, “You’re going to want a drink first."

* * *

  
Dean managed not to give a primal scream of frustration as he digested the information given to him by a demon who looked like a Wall Street type and an angel resembling a bank manager from a Podunk town.

Sam, on the other hand, wasn’t doing as well. “That can’t be true. Why would God do such a thing?”

“He’s ineffable,” Crowley said, giving a sly glance at Aziraphale who seemed clueless about the dig.

“I’m getting a headache,” Dean admitted. “How the fuck can there be three Apocalypses? Apocalypsi? Apocalypse? What the fuck is the plural for the goddamn word anyway?”

“Human beings are busy animals,” Crowley explained. “The truth is all we have to do is sit back and watch you folks go merrily on your way. That’s all it takes most of the time.”

“Then there are others who need something like Lucifer breaking out to be nudged in the right direction,” Sam added sarcastically.

“We can chat about my … Him, or we can stop Creation from completely being undone,” Crowley snapped. “So, what will it be?”

“How is that possible?” Dean asked. “To erase everything?”

“Not erase exactly,” Aziraphale said gently. “It’ll be as if God didn’t get up that day.”

“And this book will do all that,” Sam said. “If its owner knows how to solve the puzzles?”

“Exactly,” Crowley said. “And this American seems to have the ability to do just that.”

“So, what’s the problem? Why can’t you guys just swoop in and stop him?” Dean looked at the two with accusatory eyes.

“Because my … people will do everything to make sure that he’ll succeed.” Crowley sat down next to Dean. “I don’t know why. I mean, I’ll miss sushi, writing up life insurance policies, and home insurance. And code for Microsoft.”

“What he means,” Aziraphale interrupted, “is that he’ll miss this world. And I will, too. Which was why I didn’t sign up for Zachariah’s little gathering. I always thought he was a bit heavy-handed but even I didn’t think he’d go so far.”

“Well, he did.” Dean looked at the angel then Sam. “I, for one, am glad that Michael burned his ass.”

“Unfortunately, someone of Zachariah’s caliber and zeal would’ve been perfect for a job like this,” Aziraphale said. He noticed both Winchester’s dark looks and hurriedly added, “Though he’s much too volatile to be trusted completely.”

"What about the angels then?" Sam asked.

Aziraphale shook his head. "After Detroit, most of us have been called back to our Father. I'm afraid there are few of us left on earth, and we've been told in no uncertain terms to stay away from you."

"So why are you here?" Dean asked.

"Well ... I ... am not sure, to tell the truth," Aziraphale admitted in a strangled voice. "But I can't sit by and watch everything just go poof!"

Dean made a chuffing noise and said, “So, what do you want us to do?”

“Play bait,” Crowley said simply. “Right now, you two are the most hated creatures in Hell. I’m sure the moment you two stick out your heads, all the demons and whatnot will chase you down, leaving a gap in the fence for us to slip in and do what’s necessary.”

“Which is?” Sam asked, not bothering to hide his suspicion. “Sorry, but the thought of you two getting your hands on such a book isn’t what I’d call a fair trade.”

“We aren’t going to do anything with it,” Aziraphale said, shocked. “We have to destroy it, of course.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Dean asked.

“The contents may be powerful, but the book is still as fragile as the day it was put together,” Crowley explained. “Trust me, it’ll burn and burn prettily.

“Blue flames and all. I promise.”

Dean shook his head and swore loudly. “I can’t believe we’re dealing with angels and demons again. I swore we were all done with this shit.”

Sam looked at his brother and said, “I don’t think we have a choice, Dean.”

“Bobby is going to be so pissed,” Dean said.

“Oh, man,” Sam groaned.

“Yeah, think about what he’s going to say when we tell him about all this.”

“Must you?” Crowley asked.

“He’s one of us,” Dean said firmly. “And that’s final.”

“Fine with us,” Aziraphale said hurriedly.

Sam looked at Dean as he reluctantly pulled out his cell.

"Hey, Bobby? Yeah, it's me. I ... um ... we've got a problem..."

* * *

  
Bobby’s face was thunderous, and his fury seemed to radiate right through his body, his wheelchair, and into the small room. In fact, Dean thought if Bobby was capable he’d run right over Crowley and Aziraphale. Then back up just for kicks.

Bobby pointed an accusatory finger at the two creatures and snarled, “Why in hell should I believe you two assholes?”

“Because if you don’t, the downside could be … oh blinking out of existence?” Crowley answered immediately. “Look, what had happened to you was unfortunate,” Crowley made vague hand motions towards Bobby’s wheelchair, “but we’ve got bigger problems now.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes then turned to Dean and asked, “You believe these clowns?”

“Yeah, I had Sam do some research and their story checks out.”

Sam added, “It’s very old lore, but the story is pretty much the same: this Elliot woman heard God’s voice – which is somewhat suspect because she would’ve been driven mad – and put together that book.”

“A book that can undo all of God’s work?” Bobby asked.

“Human vanity, nothing like it,” Crowley said, smiling. “I hate to tell you but this world isn’t the only one God has his eyes on.”

Bobby flinched, it was a slight movement but noticeable.

“We really need your help,” Aziraphale pleaded then amended, “Or at least your friends seem to think so.”

Bobby gave a dark look at the Winchesters before huffing out a sound of frustration. “All right, what do you folks have in mind?”

Crowley explained the plan and earned a wide-eyed disbelieving look from Bobby.

“Are you people nuts?” he hollered, looking around the room. “Oh my God, you’re all serious?”

“Look, Bobby,” Dean said. “We’re not crazy about it either, but there isn’t much we can do. The guy’s got demons for protection and we just don’t have the firepower anymore now Michael’s gone home.

“Wherever home is.”

“Hopefully far, far away from here,” Bobby quipped, wincing as he remembered Michael’s spectacular entry into the world and equally fantastic exit to join his brethren. “Okay, the first thing we need to do is come up with a better plan than to dangle these two idiots in front of the demons like bait.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“We have to canvas the guy, find out his likes and dislikes,” Bobby said. “Get him some other way without alerting the demons.”

Crowley hummed then looked at Aziraphale who said, “That sounds brilliant, actually.”

“We could look at his e-trail,” Sam said. “See if we can figure out his routine.”

Crowley smiled and pointed at Aziraphale. “He’s very adept at finding information in the internet.”

Dean scowled and countered, “Sam’s better.”

Aziraphale stiffened noticeably. “I believe I am proficient.”

“Stop the pissing contest: both of you do it,” Bobby grumbled before wheeling over to a stack of books Aziraphale produced to support his argument. “And I’m gonna look through this to make sure you jokers are on the up-and-up.”

Sam nodded and plunked down on the kitchen chair. Aziraphale did the same on the opposite chair. Dean eyed Crowley with complete distrust, which the demon seemed to enjoy unabashedly.

After a good hour Sam said, “I think I found something.”

“Is it the Sudoku Extreme Face Off in San Francisco?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah,” Sam answered. “It looks like he’s going.”

“Oh, he purchased airplane tickets with Expedia months ago,” Aziraphale chimed in happily. “And looks like he’s going to stay at the conference hotel.”

“And that would be…” Sam peered onto his screen. “W hotel, across the street from the modern art museum.”

“They have beautiful collection there,” Aziraphale reminisced, “though I don’t understand any of it.”

Dean looked at the two researchers and chuckled. “Boy, we’re getting geekiness in stereo.”

“Hi-def, also,” Crowley agreed easily.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Bobby asked.

“Road trip,” Dean said.

“Why? We can transport you there,” Aziraphale said.

“Hell, no,” Dean said. “Sorry, every time Castiel did that, I had problems going to the bathroom for an entire week.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “That won’t happen with us.”

Crowley nodded, looking confused by Dean’s accusations. “Whatever that is.”

Dean looked at Sam who was busy staring at his laptop. “The answer is still no. Prune juice gives me gas.”

Crowley winced. “Oh, that.”

“You're unfortunate reaction was because of Castiel's inexperience,” Aziraphale said. “I apologize, Mr. Winchester. Castiel, though passionate about his cause, is still young.”

Crowley pointed at Aziraphale and said, “This one was in Eden. He was one of the angels guarding the gates. Had a flaming sword and everything.”

“Oh, we could definitely use one of those,” Dean said eagerly.

“Sorry, misplaced it,” Aziraphale said.

Dean gaped at the angel. “How could you lose a four-foot long sword on fire?”

“Believe it or not, it’s possible,” Aziraphale said. “So, San Francisco then?”

Crowley looked at the angel and said, “Oh, dear, I forgot. You might find the city a bit rowdy for your tastes.”

Aziraphale looked insulted. “Please, I was in Paris during the late eighteenth century. Remember?”

Crowley blinked. “You were, weren't you?” A coy smirk bloomed on the narrow face. “I remember a certain tavern…”

“You promised me you’d never speak of that again!” The angel wailed, looking fishy-eyed towards the humans in the room.

“Did I? I can’t remember,” Crowley’s smirk grew.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale cautioned.

“Oh, all right,” Crowley surrendered.

“Are we ready now?” Bobby asked. “If you two lovebirds are done, that is.”

Crowley’s smirk tightened as his glance turned cold. He looked at Bobby and cautioned, “Be careful, Mr. Singer. I may call this angel my friend, but that particular term does not apply to you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bobby said, untouched by Crowley’s brazen warning.

Sam picked up his backpack while Dean managed to shove all their meager belongings into a worn duffle bag.

“We should get going,” Sam said. “We’re going to need time to establish our covers before Lee arrives at the con.”

“I can’t believe we’re going undercover in a Sudoku competition,” Dean groused. “Probably surrounded by sugar-hyped, pasty-assed, caffeine addicts from Seattle.”

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale said, insulted. “Sudoku is a very challenging game.”

“I rest my case,” Dean said.

Sam shoved his brother out the door before Dean could further damage the shaky truce they got going with Aziraphale and Crowley. Then, out of curiosity, he looked through a window and saw Aziraphale speaking softly but quickly with the demon. Sam knew the hand motions well enough to understand those two were sharing the same argument he and Dean had on many occasions.

Bobby wheeled out of the room. His face spoke of no anger but genuine worry.

“I'm assuming you have questions?” Sam asked.

“Boatloads but now is not the time,” Bobby said. “Have you ever heard of an angel and a demon teaming up?”

“Yes,” Sam answered promptly. “Dean and myself.”

Bobby flushed and shook his head. “No, that’s not what I mean.”

“Yes, it is, Bobby,” Sam countered gently. “Look, whether you like or not, me and Dean – we were demon and angel.”

“Sam,” Dean broke into the conversation. “It was never that black and white. You know that.”

“I do but I also know I was part demon, and in the worst way possible. Lucifer didn’t choose me because I wasn’t capable of doing what he wanted me to do.”

“What are you thinking about?” Dean asked Bobby, not to happy the conversation had turned down this road.

“Why do they think this Lee guy is capable of undoing all of Creation?”

“I was thinking the very same thing,” Sam agreed. “But for now, it’s best if we go along.”

“Then pull a switcheroo?” Dean asked.

“If need be,” Sam said. “If you ask me I think they’re on the up-and up. Just a little scattered.”

“Here they come,” Dean cautioned.

Aziraphale looked a little hot under the collar as he and Crowley exited the motel room. But whatever argument they had was kept private as Bobby laid out a hasty plan to join the con as attendees. After a brief argument between Crowley and Bobby, the group piled into their respective cars.

Dean had just started the engine when suddenly he was facing a wall. “Umm, what just happened?”

Sam turned to his right and found Bobby’s van with its owner looking just as confused. Then he turned to look at the guests who weren’t at all surprised by the sudden change of scene. In fact, Aziraphale looked sheepish; Crowley looked put out.

“I had to,” Aziraphale explained. “We really were strapped for time.”

“If I have to drink one cup of prune juice,” Dean muttered under his breath, “I’m gonna be looking for serious payback.”

“It won’t happen,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure.”

Dean looked unconvinced but said nothing. Instead, he joined Bobby in order to help the man get out of the van. Sam looked at them with fondness and apprehension as the two bickered amicably.

“Don’t worry,” Aziraphale said to him. “We’ll take care of them.”

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “They’ve been through so much. They don’t deserve this.”

“Who does?” Aziraphale asked.

Sam’s grin was both honest and painful. “Agreed.”

“And, just so you know, you don’t either,” the angel said softly but with conviction. “You’ve paid your dues, Samuel Winchester. And for sins not wholly your own.”

Sam nodded, unable to say his thanks for the unsolicited kindness.

It took Bobby only few grumpy, pointed remarks for them to obtain guest passes to the convention. Crowley offered to ‘get’ the tickets but the last thing any of them needed was demon activity, since it would send up a flare.

Aziraphale eyed the con goers with good cheer while Crowley looked outright horrified by their dress and manners. He pointed a well-manicured finger at one man and said,

“What is that?”

“Human?” Dean answered, amused by the demon’s reaction.

“No, I mean what are those things he is wearing on his feet?”

Sam peered closely before answering, “Crocs?”

“Those are crocodile shoes?” Crowley blinked. “They don’t look it.”

“No, Crocs are type of sandals,” Aziraphale answered. “Very comfortable.”

“Are you responsible for those atrocities?” Crowley looked at his companion with suitable outrage.

“No, but my team is,” Aziraphale answered proudly.

“And you wonder why you only have Elgar and Liszt,” Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale looked thoughtful but said nothing. Instead, he studied his packet for the con. Sam did the same while Dean just breezed through his. While flipping through a thick printout something fell out of his folder, managing to float away almost ten feet before Dean caught up to it.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“It’s…” Dean flipped the piece of paper and read the tiny print. “Um … I’ve been invited to a Sudoku Deathmatch?”

“What?” Sam said, eyes widening. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, why are you so excited? I’m not going.”

“You have to,” Sam said. “That’s Lee’s gig. He’s also one of the members running this thing and that’s his table.”

“What’s a table?” Dean asked, then looked at Crowley and snapped, “Think harder.”

Crowley raised both hands to protest the innocence he never had.

“Cons have tables, an area cordoned off for specific events,” Sam explained hurriedly. “Sudoku Extreme does the same thing, and Lee is running the Deathmatch table.”

“How in hell do you have a deathmatch with numbers? What? You miss a square and they pelt you with their Star Trek memorabilia?”

“Nice, Dean,” Sam said, eyeing the people around them. “But it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Even if I do go to this thing, if Lee has a demon bodyguard - the goddamn thing's going to gun for my throat the moment it sees me.” Dean looked at his group. “And I gotta tell ya, I don’t like those odds. Not that I’m scared to fight a demon, but we’ve got hundreds of civilians on the loose, and there’s going to be a huge casualty list no matter what I do."

“I might have something to take care of that,” Bobby said. “It’s a spell, specifically designed to fool human vision. I think it’ll be good enough for us to slip through any demonic security system they got going.”

“Okay, then,” Sam said. “We should go to our rooms. Lee isn’t due to arrive until tomorrow afternoon, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t an advance guard coming.”

Aziraphale turned to Crowley and asked, “Why don’t you stay here? If you meet up with anyone you know maybe you can gather some information?”

Crowley straightened his tie. “I was just thinking that. If I see any of my so-called brothers I’ll be able to charm whatever information they’ve got. Trust me, all of them are still mired in the old ways. I think most don’t even know how to work the cell correctly.”

“Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” Aziraphale cautioned. “You’ve been up here way too long and they’re not above playing dirty tricks.”

“Oh, I think I can handle that,” Crowley said, a leisurely smile blooming on his chiseled face.

“Not really,” Aziraphale hissed, looking furtively around them. “We’re talking Azazel's betters. When was the last time you faced someone of that caliber?”

Crowley paused for a moment, then a fleeting look of concern shadowed his face. “I’ll manage, Angel. I always do.”

“Handle this carefully. The humans are leery of us as is. The last thing we need is to feed their paranoia. You know how they can get.”

“You handle the humans, I’ll handle covert operations.” Crowley suddenly looked very pleased. “I’ve always wanted to say those words.”

Aziraphale sighed with weary reservation usually assigned to parents of four-year-olds before joining the mortal members of the team.

Crowley studied his reflection in a hotel mirror, admiring himself and not caring that he looked completely different than the human milieu in the lobby. Studying his packet for the con, Crowley ordered a mocha from the lobby café, all the while surreptitiously studying the foot traffic.

Suddenly his cell rang.

_Here we are now, entertain us..._

The dapper demon gritted his teeth as he answered with a “hello?”

“Crowley!” growled an inhuman voice. “What are you doing there? You weren’t assigned protective detail.”

Crowley froze. He had never met a demon who knew what ‘protective detail’ meant, much less use a cell. “Um … who am I speaking to?”

“It’s me, Baalberith.”

“Oh,” Crowley froze, eyes wide with genuine fear. “Good afternoon, sir. How are you doing? Good to know someone down there can properly use a cell.”

“It’s me, Crowley,” Baalberith said, sarcasm somehow managing to drip through the threatening tone. “I am always in favor of machinery that can spread our will.”

Crowley had forgotten; Baalberith was one of those who loved to talk, usually to human beings in order to achieve bloody mayhem if not genocide. “Of course.”

“Crowley, why are you there?!”

“I heard something in the grapevine … and I thought I’d come along and see if I can have a jolly or two.”

“You would think such things during a momentous time like this,” Baalberith snapped. “Don’t fuck this up, Crowley. Remember Tadfield?”

“Sir, you _know_ I had nothing to do with that particular mess. In fact, I was trying my best to bring things to head.”

There was a disturbing pause before Baalberith admitted, “Yes, I may have heard something about your contribution, but the entire debacle was a black eye for our side. And now with … Him back in his quarters, things are tense around here.”

“Understood,” Crowley gushed. “Which is why I came. I must say, some of my compatriots are not quite up to snuff with all the modern technology. In fact, I think some of them may never have driven a car.”

“There is that,” Baalberith groused loudly. “They do not credit the demon race. In fact, if I had my way, they’d be in my filing department for eternity.”

Crowley winced but said nothing.

“Since you are there already, I see no harm in letting you stay,” Baalberith said. “Take care you don’t repeat Tadfield in San Francisco.”

“Yes, sir.”

_I feel stupid and contagious..._

Crowley closed the cell and managed not to pitch it onto the head of the nearest human. Instead, He ordered a vodka and orange juice and then, just out of malice, switched the most expensive bottle of whiskey with apple juice.

He immediately felt better when he heard the outraged cries of three men who ordered the expensive bottle only to discover they didn’t get what they paid for. He walked out of the bar, not paying for his drink because Crowley never did. Well, he did once, but the tab also included a martini he bought for Lauren Bacall who dropped by St. Moritz one winter. She favored him with a cat-like smile and even Crowley felt a little light-headed after that momentous encounter.

He strolled around the lobby and noted three minor league demons who looked so pathetically out of place Crowley actually felt bad for them. But, being a demon himself, he spitefully enjoyed watching hotel security question then escort the possessed humans out of the building. Crowley's mood considerably improved after watching that little display of stupidity. At least he blended in, though without the hideous crocs, the t-shirts with stupid logos, and Heaven forbid (seriously) jeans that fitted in such ill manner that the owners' backsides looked like they were kicked in by Godzilla.

Crowley casually leaned against a marble table as he eavesdropped on two humans discussing the magnificence that was Sudoku Extreme Con. Even with his best effort, it was a mystery to the demon why the humans were so excited to dull their minds to the point their IQ would be equivalent to those belonging to the flatworm.

Shaking his head in wonder, the demon did the tour around the lobby before taking the elevators to the room reserved for him. To his unending annoyance, Aziraphale got him a standard room. The demon sniffed disdainfully before calling his friend.

“Angel, where are you?”

“The room next to you.”

“Oh, be there in a whisper.”

He materialized in front of not only the angel but the humans. Crowley was fully expecting to see sour looks on the mortals but what he got was a chorus of faces looking apoplectic. In fact, Crowley froze for a moment, wondering if his very existence was in danger. After all, the Winchesters were famous for their exorcism prowess, especially the younger one. Sam’s ability to banish demons back to hell just by thinking about it sent shivers through Crowley’s non-existent spine.

“What's wrong?” he asked suspiciously.

“He can’t see,” Bobby snapped.

“Can’t see _what_ exactly?” Crowley studied Dean, Sam, and Bobby. Then he noticed their reflections in the mirror behind them.

Crowley’s eyes widened considerably. “Angel, what did you do?”

Sam had been transformed into a petite Asian female with spotty skin and a pixie haircut. Dean became a tall beanpole kid who looked like he was barely past puberty. And Bobby has become an African American male who possessed the same grumpy countenance, save with more hair.

“I see,” Crowley looked at Aziraphale, wondering if the angel was actually aware of the danger he was in. “Well, I must say the disguises are perfect.”

“You call this perfect?” Dean barked.

Crowley nodded eagerly. “You three blend in with the rest of the humans attending this meeting. Even better, no demon would guess you are the Winchesters.

“Would someone like Dean Winchester move about, resembling a walking target in the lunchroom? And Sam - a woman? Please. Everyone knows John's second son's a giant. We, demons, have the same prejudices and shortsightedness as humans. As for Bobby ... well … I mean…”

“Just cough it out.” Bobby sighed and sat back into his wheelchair.

“Sorry to say, nobody is expecting you to join this fight. Not after what it cost you last time.”

Bobby's face morphed from anger to resignation. "Hate to say it but the demon’s right. We can’t go downstairs looking like us. The demons won’t care what their jobs are, they’ll be game to bring down the entire hotel if it means they can kill us.

“Let’s face it, we’re not on anybody’s Christmas card list, demons or angels.”

Dean deflated as he accepted what Bobby was saying. “So, I guess I’m gonna be stuck as a geek for the foreseeable future?”

Sam smirked. “I call it karma.”

Dean glared at his brother. “Pot calling kettle black, bro. From where I’m standing you finally found your inner girl.”

Sam flipped a bird as an answer and said, “So, Aziraphale – how long will this glamour hold?”

“Oh, as long as I want to,” Aziraphale chirped. “You must understand, I’m not very high in rank, but I’ve been around for a long time. And I know a few tricks my brothers are not familiar with.”

Sam gave a deep nod and said, “Fine, let’s go with this. I’ll go back downstairs and see if I can hack into the con’s website and see what they’re up to.”

“Dude, wear a low-cut,” Dean said. “Trust me, you won’t have to hack into anything. All you have to do is lean over little and say ‘please’.”

“I can whip up something,” Crowley said. “Sexy but tasteful.”

Sam looked like he was suffering from constipation but managed to croak out, “Okay.” He then rushed to add, “No high heels, please.”

“Noted,” Crowley said, smiling benignly while ignoring Aziraphale’s alarming looks towards him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters discover the plural term for the Apocalypse. They are not amused. Neither are Crowley and Aziraphale who must help them stop all of God's creation from becoming undone.

Sam grimaced as he studied the Doc Martens. He should’ve known better than to trust a demon, but he had little choice as Aziraphale seemed to readily defer to his counterpart when it came to fashion. And the sad fact was Sam demanded comfortable footwear and the boots were that, if also acting as a type of pheromones for the entire male population attending the con.

While wriggling his toes inside the boots, Sam looked around and spotted a demon who managed to look halfway normal. The meatsuit was a middle-aged guy with the middle-aged curse of round belly and receding hairline. With the golf shirt and docker trousers, the poor bastard looked like a prosperous middle-management nerd, living his geekoid dreams.

Sam took a peek inside his Michael Kors purse (courtesy of Crowley) to check on his gun and then strutted down the hallway to the conference where he was suppose to scout. One of the managers running the show was scheduled to MC a panel featuring a man named Adam Diddlebutt.

Besides possessing a very unfortunate name, he was also last year’s champion for the Sudoku Deathmatch. Sam took a seat closest to the back entrance and studied the people sitting in front of him. He crossed his arms and leaned back – his usual pose. Unfortunately the move pushed up his boobs and drew a great deal of attention around him.

Sam wondered how in hell human beings got beyond inventing the wheel and learning the usage of fire if the male brain was so hard-wired for sex. He then snorted when he remembered Dean’s summation of Sam’s getup.

“Okay, the shirt’s totally badass and the boots are too. But the fatigue pants are a deal killer. They make your ass fat. And you don’t have an ass.”

Sam thought he’d be safe with the no-ass ensemble. Obviously Dean’s tastes were slightly more urbane than the men attending the con. And wasn’t that a scary thought? Sam didn’t think anyone had lower standards than Dean, but obviously he was wrong.

A man who looked a bit too much like John Winchester took center stage and said, “So, ladies and gentlemen, let’s not waste any more time! Here is Adam Diddlebutt!”

Sam couldn’t stop a snort from escaping his lips. He looked around and noted everyone else was too enamored of the guest speaker to even notice his amusement.

_Jesus, are these people serious?_

Adam Diddlebutt looked just like his name, and when he opened his mouth Sam was strongly reminded of the actor who played Maxwell Smart in the television series as Diddlebutt sounded like he had a nasal infection and got kicked in the balls.

Sam dutifully tuned him out in order to study the MC who had a pedestrian name of Miles Jackson. As if sensing attention, the man scanned the crowd and zoomed in on Sam. When their eyes met, it was Sam who squirmed a little in his seat. Even with his bad complexion, it became very obvious Sam’s other assets were appreciable enough to draw male attention and keep it.

Feeling his ass go numb after thirty minutes Sam bolted out the door first moment possible. He waited by the doorway, trying to button his James Pearse shirt higher only to find the fucking thing didn’t have a top button like other shirts. Thankfully the cami underneath prevented him from getting arrested for soliciting.

“Want a smoke?”

Sam looked up to discover Miles offering a pack of cigarettes. "Is that even allowed?" he asked.

Miles pointed at an ashtray not two feet from where Sam was standing.

“Thank you,” Sam said. He couldn’t find any difference in his voice but Aziraphale must have done something right because Miles’ face reddened noticeably.

“You’re new,” Miles said. “I’m good with faces and I don’t recognize you. What’s your name?”

“Sammy. Samantha Nishino. This is quite the operation; not that I would know. This is my first con, actually.”

“Oh, really?” Miles perked with even more interest. “So, what drew you to our little kingdom?”

“I met someone on-line and he was very enthusiastic about this one. I had some vacation time so I thought I’d see what the fuss was all about.”

“It’s awesome,” Miles said with genuine enthusiasm. “Sudoku can be intense under pressure. And it sure as hell makes a great spectacle.

“Are you a fan?”

“I guess I am, but nowhere near the caliber of the other attendees. I’m more of an amateur.”

“Who was the lucky man who got your attention?”

Sam choked out, “Bruce Lee.” It was still impossible for him to vocalize the name without bursting out with laughter.

“He’s an awesome guy,” Miles said without a trace of irony. “He’s leading a panel tomorrow. I think you’ll like it.”

“It’s the deathmatch, right?”

“No, that one's scheduled on the last day of the con. But Team Sudoku is one of our more popular events,” Miles explained. “By the way, what are you doing tonight?”

Sam suddenly realized he was cornered, and with his petite frame Miles had him completely blocked from view. “I was curious because my friends and I are planning to go out for drinks after things wind down," MIles said with a salacious grin.

“Really?” Sam tried to drum up some semblance of enthusiasm but could find none. The guy was twice his age and he didn’t seem to care that he was hitting on someone who was probably still a teenager.

_Gotta love the Twilight Syndrome_ , Sam thought sourly. His mood worsened when Miles ran his fingers down Sam’s right arm and clasped his hand.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Miles cajoled. “Get some drinks…”

“There you are, midget!” Dean hollered not five feet away.

Sam could’ve seriously kissed his brother who was standing too close to Miles. But the man's reaction was not one of fear, which was the emotion Dean usually inspired when he was in an aggressive mood. Instead, Miles smirked and said,

“Hey, PeeWee, this conversation is private.”

“And that’s my sister,” Dean shot back.

Miles’ head snapped towards Sam then back at Dean. “Oh…”

“Adopted,” Sam said. “Dean here is my big brother.”

Dean pushed aside Miles and grabbed Sam by his arm. “C’mon, we should get something to eat. The flight here was a bitch.”

Miles looked woefully at them as they walked away.

“You okay?” Dean asked. "You were sweating bullets back there."

Sam nodded. “I was but Miles knows Lee. I think he can hook me up with the guy.”

“Um, is that a good thing? I mean the sleazoid had his hands all over you.” Dean glanced down towards Sam’s arm. “Did he bruise you? He was holding on pretty tight.”

Sam rolled up his sleeve and looked. “No, it’s not bad. The guy had a spaghetti grip.”

“Do you want to meet up with him?”

“Can you tag along?” Sam felt lame asking, but he realized he needed a wingman because he had never fended off unwanted attentions from someone who could legally be his father.

“Sure, from the way the guy was drooling over you he wouldn’t care if I was breathing down on his neck.”

“Thanks,” Sam gruffed out. “So, what’s next?”

Dean pulled out a keycard. “I found out where Lee’s staying. I figure couple of bugs should tell us everything about the guy and more.”

“Cool.”

* * *

  
“Dude, I don’t think your fingernails are going to get any prettier, so give it a rest, all right?”

Crowley gave a bored look at Dean whose jawline was tense enough to worry Aziraphale. Unfortunately, the demon looked blasé about the unspoken threat and returned to buffing his nails. There was activity at the door which drew all their attention, including loaded firearms.

The familiar creaking of Bobby's wheelchair didn't lessen the tension and neither did his entrance.

Crowley looked at the crippled human with jealousy. Because of the man’s handicap, Bobby was given a corner suite with a bathroom that was literally twice the size of Crowley’s. Not that the demon needed to take a bath or use the toilet, or even brush his teeth: it was the principle of the thing.

Bobby dumped a pile of folders onto the table. “From what I can understand Bruce … Bruce…” Bobby’s face contorted in order not to burst out laughing. “Lee is going to bring the book with him. He has to.”

“A compulsion, then?” Aziraphale asked.

“Something like that,” Bobby answered. “Once he started reading that goddamn thing, he can’t really leave it behind. So, it would be to our advantage if we never open the goddamn thing ourselves.”

“Will we have to kill him to get it?” Sam asked somberly.

“Don’t know; I hope not,” Bobby said. “But we can’t rule it out, either. If this thing’s got its hook in him, then we might have no choice.”

“You guys know anything about this?” Dean asked.

“No,” Aziraphale looked anxious about the idea of killing a human being just because he bought the wrong book. “There’s no precedent when it comes to the Stitched Words.”

“So, Bruce Lee is still human,” Dean said. “No special powers or anything.”

“None,” Crowley confirmed. “But don't forget, he's going to have a host of demons at his disposal.”

“How does that work?” Sam asked. “Do they have to be physically present at all times? Or do they have some kind of supernatural connection to Lee?”

“They have to be present, but they will be. Of that I’m sure,” Crowley said. “Our Superior was very specific about that particular order.”

“What are you thinking?” Dean asked.

“Just that if we get the book away from him, I wonder will the demons stay with him or follow the book?” Sam looked thoughtful as he pondered the answers to his own question.

“The book is valuable,” Crowley admitted. “But besides Lee, I cannot imagine anyone who is actually capable of deciphering the text.”

“So we have to improvise,” Dean said. “We can do that. Hell, we’re damn good at doing that.”

“But that’s not at all important,” Crowley said. “We’re going to burn the blasted thing the moment we get our hands on it.”

“Which at that time the demons will probably tear apart Lee limb from limb, just out of frustration,” Bobby added.

“So, we either put a bullet in his head or save him,” Dean said. “That’s just great.”

Sam grimaced at Dean’s comment and looked at Aziraphale. “He’s right. We can’t let Bruce…” Sam’s lips narrowed further before continuing, “Lee die.”

“Well, we can try to keep him alive,” Crowley said airily, “but our main focus is still on the Stitched Words.”

“They’re right,” Bobby agreed reluctantly. “We have to get the book. Otherwise, it might get lost and resurface later. The truth is we don’t know how many are out there who are like Lee. There might be three or there might be none. The last thing we need is for the demons to get a hold of the book and keep passing it along until they find someone who can read the damn thing.”

Dean didn’t look too happy with the idea but didn’t contradict the man because he knew Bobby was right.

Sam looked at his brother and said, “I guess I’m going out tonight.”

“ _We’re_ going out tonight.”

Crowley smiled and rubbed his hands. “Oh, I have just the right outfits for both of you.”

Sam caught Dean shuddering and wondered what the demon had in store for them.

* * *

  
Sam pulled on the tight sheath’s dress away from his ass. He wondered for the nth time how in hell women could wear such outfits and not get biblical-portioned wedgies. He looked down at the black dress along with black combat boots and considered returning to his room, calling it a day.

_And this outfit’s the fifth one._

He remembered Dean’s memorable tirades as Crowley presented one dress after another.

“Holy fuck, where’d you go shopping? Hookers Unlimited?”

“I beg your pardon. It was at a local mall, and I believe the shop was called Bebe.”

“All Sam needs is a friggin’ street lamp and he’d be earning some serious cash tonight,” Dean sniped. “By the way, in case you didn’t get the memo, you’re not dressing my _brother_ in any of those whorish outfits.”

The last one came along with black combat boots which came a long way in convincing Dean it was acceptable. Even Sam had to admit, the black dress was the most demure out of the collection. He couldn’t figure out how he would fit his frame into such a tiny thing, but Aziraphale’s magic did its job and Sam wore the dress without trouble.

Of course, the moment he caught his reflection, Sam choked on his saliva and almost lost his balance. Somehow, Dean managed to keep his expression neutral. It took Sam a while to realize Dean was wondering how he was going to fend off any admirers his younger brother might attract. Suddenly, Sam feared that Dean was as fragile as his guise was and would be incapable of protecting Sam if Miles got more than frisky.

As if reading his mind, Dean said, “I don’t know what you got planned for me but I’m planning to bring weapons, so I’m gonna need a jacket.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’m going to be nearby, so I hardly see you needing anything save good manners and a pleasing smile.”

“Guns. Jacket. Now.”

Crowley raised an elegant eyebrow in protest but said nothing. Instead, he materialized clothing from the air and tossed them to Dean. “These should fit you perfectly.”

In retrospect, Sam should’ve forced Dean to show what he was going to wear. However, being completely mortified by his own outfit, Sam hid in his room until he had no choice. Fortunately, his embarrassment didn't last long: the moment Sam saw Dean he couldn’t stop himself from exploding with laughter.

Dean looked like world’s most demure rent boy.

In response, Dean snarled, “I’m gonna kill that arrogant fucker.”

“I think he got that from Abercrombie and Fitch.”

“Dude, the jeans are pretty fucking uncomfortable.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, they look tight. But at least you got the leather jacket.”

Dean looked at the soft lambskin leather bomber and grinned. “It’s pretty cool.”

“How many guns are you carrying?”

“Three, including the ankle.”

“Let’s hope none of the clubs have metal detectors.”

“With the amount of metal piercings that are in style these days?”

“Maybe not,” Sam agreed. “So, ready to rock-n-roll?”

Dean smirked. “Why not? We’ve been in worse situations before.”

“But usually with more clothing.”

“And without a demon and an angel besides us,” Dean added.

Sam frowned. “No, remember…”

“Oh yeah, how could I forget?”

The two men went downstairs to meet up with Miles who was all smiles when he spotted them. Before they left the lobby, Dean saw Bobby sitting nearby, looking at them slack-jawed.

Just for the hell of it, Sam threw a wink.

Bobby rolled his eyes and looked down at the _Wired_ magazine resting on his lap. Sam felt a soft thump on the back of his head and grinned. Dean’s warning was more of a warm reminder of who he was and not a threatening gesture.

Miles looked back at Dean but the only look he got was one of beatific innocence as Dean gave his best wide-eyed look. Miles’ reaction was one of chagrin and silence as they got into a taxi.

They arrived on a street filled with nightclubs, some of them with genuinely good music pouring out of their open doors. To Sam’s dismay the bar Miles had chosen was one of those trendy ones where the bartender added ‘-tini’ to the end of every goddamn drink. He heard Dean’s chuff of annoyance and gave a warning glance at a reply.

Miles made a big show of being a ‘buddy’ of the bouncer at the doorway but all he got for his troubles was a bored nod. Nevertheless, his enthusiasm didn't waver. And when they made their way to the back of the club, Miles gave an equally jovial wave to a group who was lucky enough to get a table. Sam recognized few as con organizers. He gave a weak wave of hello and was greeted with markedly less enthusiasm than Miles. Dean did the same and was given a far friendlier greeting.

_Figures_ , Sam thought sourly. _Doesn’t matter what body we’re in, Dean's always the one who gets the crowd._

Miles introduced them, and it didn’t take long for Sam to figure out the other two men at the table were more interested in Dean than his sister. Adding to the tally were the other three women who were _also_ more interested in Dean. Which, unfortunately, left him to Miles’ tender addresses.

Sam resigned himself and listened to his default date who prattled on and on about the con. Suddenly, in the middle of the one-sided slop of a conversation, Sam heard something interesting. Even Dean caught the strange tidbit of gossip.

“Really? Stomach flu?” Sam said, hoping his tone conveyed coy interest. “That’s horrible!”

Miles gave a dewy look of sadness. “Yeah, it was bad. But Bruce’s buddies pulled through, so we’re going to be fine.”

“Good to know Bruce has such good friends,” Dean said. “I mean, three people who are willing to drop everything so they can help their … neighbor are a rare find. How long have they known each other?”

“Just few weeks,” Miles answered. “They moved into the building in the last month or so.”

Dean gave a knowing look at Sam before returning his attention to Rachel sitting next to him. Sam made a mental note to find the three men who were scheduled to arrive with Lee. He wondered if they were all possessed by demons or if one was a genuine friend with some time to waste.

Because he was so focused on the hunt, it took a while for Sam to realize that Miles’ hand had crept onto his right knee and was currently moving upwards. Sam wondered what Miles would do if he slammed a fork right into the meat of the hand. Smiling at the thought, he grabbed Mike’s pinky and folded it back sharply. The rest of the fingers followed their little buddy, and Sam easily peeled the wayward hand from his thigh. Miles didn’t react visibly but also kept his sticky fingers to himself.

Dean looked at Sam and noticed the rigid lines on the shoulders and back. He coughed and looked at his watch. “Wow, sorry to say but we have to go back to the hotel. I’m way overdue for my sleep.”

Miles gave Dean a condescending look. “You schedule your beauty sleep?"

“No,” Dean answered. “But my doc tells me I need at least six hours of sleep to properly metabolize my drugs.”

The table fell silent immediately while Sam mentally applauded Dean’s ability to lie while looking like a cherub.

“Oh,” Miles said, looking ashamed now.

“Yeah, my kidneys,” Dean said with a weak smile. “So, Sam?”

Sam stood up. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll just take a cab home.”

With that the two left the bar as fast as they could without looking like they were bolting. The first thing Sam did when he got to his hotel room was to take off the dress and toss it in the trashcan. Meanwhile, Dean went to his room to change and returned looking grubby but normal.

Sam sighed and sat down on his bed. “So, the recon was both personally appalling and useful. We have three possible demons accompanying Lee. Odds are good there will be at least one with him at all times.”

“One we can handle. But I spotted at least four while we were at the lobby. I’m betting there’s a legion – no, that’s not a pun – in or around this building.”

“We’re going to have to time this to the second,” Sam said. “What do you think of Aziraphale and Crowley?”

“They fight like they’ve been married for three thousand years, at least,” Dean replied, grinning broadly. “They’re on the up-and-up, at least with each other.”

“So, you really trust them?”

“Yeah, I do. Well, at least Aziraphale. He’s one of the good guys. Or at least one who’s been around us so long he’s gone native.”

“How do you know that for sure?” Sam finally had to voice his curiosity. “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“After the whole Armageddon That Never Was, I started seeing angels. But I don’t think they know I can do that. And I haven’t told anyone about it because the last thing anybody needs after Detroit was to hear more shit from us Winchesters.”

“Are they invisible or something?”

Dean shook his head. “No, they’re like Castiel: normal, slightly rumpled but look like regular nine-to-five Joes. But they have this … glow, this calm about them. And wings.” Dean paused as his eyes widened slightly in wonder. “Jesus, their wings are beautiful, Sam. They’re made of elements like light, shadow, fire, and wind. But they have them and you can’t miss it once you see them.

"And, sometimes I see humans who are almost angelic.”

"That can’t be right,” Sam said. “Humans can’t be angels.”

“Do you know what angels are, Sam? They are God’s will, plain and simple. And some people even with their free will choose to become one.”

“Like Jimmy,” Sam concluded. “Like you?”

“I don’t know about me.” Dean shook his head and added, “But I don’t think the demons can see. If they did, they’d be able to kill off all human hosts who are able to contain angels.”

Sam studied his brother, trying to see if there were any changes, but Dean still looked the same to him. A lot thinner since the battle, but he possessed the same level of disregard for the law and his personal safety. There was also the same nauseating eating habits and the usual carousing.

“Don’t think too hard over there, you might break something,” Dean deadpanned.

“I hate angels and demons,” Sam muttered and slammed back onto his bed, moaning. “By the way, I hated the book too.”

“C’mon, Sam, let’s get some sleep. We’ll meet up with our Losers Club for breakfast and see what’s next.”

* * *

  
Sam found himself genuinely enjoying his French toast despite the fact the Crowley was sitting next to him, drinking black coffee from elegant bone china cup whose origins were mystery to all the humans on the table. Aziraphale opted for tea only and sipped delicately as the humans dug into their plates.

Sam managed to inform the rest of the team the information he’d gathered last night, earning choked laughter and sympathetic glances from the kinder members of the team.

“So, what do you want to do with his three escorts?” Crowley asked. “Should we locate them elsewhere? May I recommend somewhere in the Bering Sea?”

Sam gave the option the seriousness it deserved. “Not a chance.”

Dean looked mighty disappointed but said nothing.

“Have to agree with Sam,” Bobby said. “Too dangerous unless we have a definite head count on the demons hanging around here.”

“Oh, at least a dozen,” Aziraphale replied promptly.

Crowley turned to the angel and asked, “And how did you come up with that number?”

“Well, I remember St. Petersburg's Triumph.”

Crowley blushed furiously. “I wish you hadn’t brought that up.” He noticed the humans sitting around the table looking at him with open curiosity. “There was an icon … it was of some valuable to our side, so we tried to appropriate it.”

Aziraphale gave a polite cough and kept on sipping his tea. Crowley looked at the angel with annoyance before adding, “It was ill-planned and poorly timed. However, Aziraphale was correct; there were seventeen demons in all.”

“Why seventeen?” Dean asked. “Why not one hundred and seventeen?”

“Because demons aren’t so united as you might think,” Crowley explained. “There are so many factions it’s impossible to unite everyone. And that’s twice as applicable after what you two accomplished in Detroit.

“There’s also the fact there are seventeen largest factions, and each has representative in a show.”

“So, there’s probably fourteen hanging around,” Bobby said. “Which is a lot less than what we had to deal with.”

Crowley shook his head. “I beg to differ. These seventeen are the elite, gentlemen. They are the champions. Those you dealt with in the Great Shove,” here Crowley’s lip curled a little in bitter amusement, “were children. The heavy hitters were taken unawares and were on their way when you succeeded.”

“But doesn’t that mean there’s a good chance they’ll kill each other?” Bobby asked.

“Usually, yes,” Crowley said. “All we would have to do is sit back and let nature take its course. But the orders came from the Top and that’s with capital ‘T’. They’ll obey, I’m certain.”

“But we can still exorcise them,” Bobby said. “They’re not immune to that.”

“No,” Crowley agreed. “But they’ll be expecting that, since we were warned the other side will get involved if they get a whiff of what’s happening with Lee.”

“And we might have a problem from my compatriots,” Aziraphale admitted. “I thought about this long and hard, and the ugly truth is we can’t be sure everyone on my side of the fence will destroy the damned thing.”

“What?” Sam asked, appalled. “Why in hell would they not?”

“Because some of my compatriots are furious about your interference,” Aziraphale explained reluctantly. “They honestly believe they would’ve succeeded without human aid.”

“But Dean was Michael in Detroit,” Sam said.

“I know and it’s hard to explain,” Aziraphale said then gave a small, helpless shrug. “Actually, it's not. Very simply put - it’s pride. And there’s also the fact that Dean ejected Michael as soon as the Great Shove was finished.

"Michael was very popular, even more than Raphael or Gabriel. So, to have a human reject him was a great insult to my brothers.”

“So, we can’t trust anyone with the book,” Bobby concluded.

“We’re gonna torch that sucker,” Dean said. “Nuke it if we have to, but it’s gonna have to be destroyed, for good.”

Sam nodded in agreement. “Lee is scheduled to fly in at eleven in the morning. He’ll probably check in around one. What do you guys want to do?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “I think it’s time we place the listening devices in his room.”

Crowley nodded in agreement and patted the chest pocket of his suit. “I have the necessary equipment.”

“In that itty bitty pocket?” Dean asked, skeptically.

“The latest from MI5,” Crowley shot back. “You Americans don’t exactly have a monopoly on covert technology, in case you’re wondering.”

Aziraphale placed a restraining hand on the demon’s arm. A move that made Dean wonder exactly what threw these two disparate personalities into such a comfortable alliance.

“How long have you two been friends?” Bobby asked.

Dean and Sam tried not to look too eager for the answer but failed completely.

Crowley suddenly looked shifty and Aziraphale squirmed in his seat. It was the angel who answered first. “We’ve known each other since Eden was created.”

Dean’s eyes widened while Sam gaped at the two. Bobby smirked and shook his head. “No wonder you two behave like old married couple.”

Now it was Aziraphale who looked annoyed. “I’m an angel. We are incapable of falling in love, for all our being is dedicated to the Ineffable.”

Sam gave a knowing look at Dean who remained unmoved by Aziraphale’s declaration.

Bobby tapped the table and said, “Give me the bugs.”

Crowley frowned and made a protesting noise before asking, “Why? I can do it in less than a minute.”

“You’re a demon,” Bobby answered before pointing to Aziraphale, “and he’s an angel. And these two ijits have been touched by both your kinds, so the only one who can enter Lee’s room without raising any kind of alarm is me.”

“You think they’ve booby-trapped his room somehow?” Sam asked.

“You can count on it,” Bobby replied. “By the way, it’ll only take me a minute too, wiseguy.”

Crowley reluctantly handed over the slim devices no bigger than a pen cap which Sam and Dean admired with avarice and wonder. Bobby looked them over and gave a nod of approval before pocketing them.

"Stay here," Bobby cautioned them before leaving the room.

"Remarkable man," Aziraphale murmured.

"You have no idea," Dean said, his voice reflecting both fondness and admiration.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters discover the plural term for the Apocalypse. They are not amused. Neither are Crowley and Aziraphale who must help them stop all of God's creation from becoming undone.

Bruce smiled wanly as his new friend, Jason Kipling, hailed a cab for the group. Initially, he was glad that his new neighbors were coming with him. In fact, Bruce was elated that people whose good opinion he desired thought that Sudoku was cool enough for them to attend the conference with him, and take on the mundane tasks of helping him run his little corner of the world.

But the truth was after living with one or all three hanging out in his little condo for the last month, Bruce actually missed his solitary lifestyle. He possessed a fastidious nature so he was used to dealing with people who were sloppier, not caring if they made mistakes since they fully expected Bruce to clean up their messes.

But Jason, his brother Kevin, and Kevin’s girlfriend – Ash were grade A anal-retentive personalities who had predilections towards not only organizing their lives but now Bruce’s. At first he enjoyed hanging out with people like him, but it didn't take long for the 'new and shiny' mentality wore off. So, the Sudoku aficionado was actually looking forward to having some quality time with his net friends.

A minivan-cab pulled up to the curb and they piled in. The driver looked at the rearview mirror, openly studying his fare. And Bruce couldn’t blame him for his curiosity. While he looked non-descript at best, Kevin could rate in the GQ scale along with his brother while Ash would definitely be considered a professional model with her large, expressive doe eyes and slim but athletic build.

And they were dressed accordingly, too. Bruce was wearing his finest and he got his clothes at Macy’s sales while the rest of the group looked like they got theirs from Neiman Marcus and definitely not on sale. Once again, Bruce wondered why Jason found him so … what was the word? ‘Refreshing’. And his posh British accent made the word sound so seductive, Bruce blushed the first time he’d heard his neighbor say it.

When the cab pulled up to the hotel, Bruce felt a spasm of relief that the building and the lobby didn’t look too shabby. He suspected his friends were used to sleek, shiny things with discreet charm.

The front desk people looked up at him and gave their plastic smiles. But once their eyes traveled to his entourage, their faces suddenly turned rosy red with interest.

“Good afternoon,” a pretty girl said. “I’m Amy. Can I check you in?”

“Yes, my name is Bruce Lee.”

There were the usual responses: titters of barely-hidden laughter, some wide-eyed glances, and the usual looks of pity.

“Yes, here you are, Mr. Lee.” Amy looked at the people behind Bruce and added, “Sir, I think reservations might have made a mistake. We have a single room reserved for you.”

Kevin glided right next to Bruce and said, “Hello, name’s Kevin Kipling. I made reservations under my name for myself, my girlfriend, and my brother, Jason. The reservation should be for a suite.”

Amy’s blush deepened as she scanned the screen. “Yes, glad to see you, Mr. Kipling.”

And right there Bruce knew he was dismissed. He gave a mental sigh and stepped aside, quietly accepting his keycard when Amy handed them out. However, his mood brightened a little when he noticed his friends were on the top floor while he was on the fifth.

“Fancy a drink after?” Ash asked, yawning and making it somehow look obscene. “I can do with a proper whisky after that flight.”

“Sounds good,” Jason chimed in. “When should we swing by Bruce?”

Bruce wondered if he actually said yes. “Um, three?”

“That sounds fantastic,” Kevin said. “We’ll come by.”

Bruce gave a wan smile and exited the elevator with a sigh of relief. He trundled to the room, dragging the recalcitrant carry-on behind him. The creaky whining of the wheels finally got to his nerves and Bruce opened the door with more force than necessary. He then kicked the bag and enjoyed the sound of it crashing against the hallway closet.

“Thank you, Lord,” Bruce announced loudly as he studied the small, clean, _private_ room with unabashed gratitude.

He unpacked everything, proud to have taken up only one drawer space, and took a quick shower before snuggling deeply into the comfortable bed. He checked his cell and noted five messages from Miles. Quite a few of them mentioned a pretty girl he’d met who claimed she knew Bruce from her on-line forays.

Bruce smiled. Miles was a good guy, a bit of a spaz but a trustworthy soul who always pulled through when needed. Bruce also knew he had an ally in Miles when things go south (and they were bound to in a con), especially where a Deathmatch was concerned.

_Speaking of Deathmatches, who are the unfortunate sacrificial lambs this year?_

He studied the printout, recognized few names, and once more felt a twinge of shame to note only three women on the list.

 _We’re gonna get reamed again,_ Bruce thought, massaging his temples to hold back a headache.

To further his aggravation, there was a knock on the door. Bruce grimaced and pressed deeper into his bed. He didn’t want to join Jason and go down to the bar only to be gawked at by the servers, all silently wondering how in hell he managed to fall in with such a fashionable crowd.

Ash’s lovely voice drifted in. “Are you in there, Bruce?”

The weary man kept quiet, willing his friends to leave him in peace. There was another stream of gentle knocks but nothing else followed. However, Bruce remained tense for few more minutes before finally relaxing. He was tempted to turn on the television but refrained. Though Bruce was pretty sure Jason and his gang went downstairs, something in the back of his head told him his new buddies weren’t that far away. Like maybe down the hall? Few doors away even?

 _But what would they be doing?_ Bruce wondered. _Why would they be waiting for me? They’re not my bodyguards, for Pete’s sake._

But that thought would not leave him: that his new friends were, in truth, well-dressed guard dogs. Feeling a slight chill tickle his spine, Bruce forced his mind to turn to mundane things like the Deathmatch. He wondered who would make it, and wouldn’t it be something if the winner was someone he knew?

Bruce had no idea how tense he was until the room phone crashed through his thoughts. He let out a tight, little scream of shock before realizing what the sound was. He fumbled for the receiver and barked out a greeting.

“Oh, there you are,” Jason’s voice drifted in. “Ash told me you weren’t in your room.”

Bruce closed his eyes and wondered what would happen if he just hung up. Instead, he gave a weak excuse. “My head was killing me so I took a nap.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Jason said. “Why don’t I let you have a rest, then? Call me when you feel better.”

“Sure,” Bruce said. “Thanks.”

He hung up, wanting to give a sigh of relief but refrained. He also wanted to check the hallway but was afraid of what he’d find. So, he stayed in his bed, not moving while berating himself for his cowardice.

* * *

  
Dean chugged down the coffee, then woefully looked at the bottom of the cup.

“Cheap bastards,” he muttered. “I swear, with the charges they’re shoving down our throats you’d think they could at least give us a decent cup of coffee.”

Sam wanted to tell Dean to shut up but he had to agree with his brother’s assessment. His hand completely dwarfed the cup and it had taken only five sips for him to empty it.

“D-boys at five o’clock,” Dean whispered.

Sam looked at the reflection on the ceiling-to-floor mirrors to his left and immediately noticed three people who did not fit the rest of the convention goers. Two men dressed to kill accompanying a woman who would be welcomed in any man’s bed with just a single smile. Just the predatory way they walked rang every claxon in Sam’s head.

“Wow, she’s a looker,” Dean said. “Pretty damn interesting.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked softly.

“You’d think they’d try to blend in like us, but they might as well be screaming ‘demons!’ with the getup they got going.”

Sam looked at his brother, marveling at Dean’s unparalleled sense as a hunter. No matter how many times Dean beat himself up regarding his lack of formal education, when it came to their chosen careers, Dean had no equal; not even their father was so attuned.

“What are you thinking?” Sam asked, not wanting to jar Dean from his current train of thought.

“I’m thinking those three don’t care because they never did,” Dean said. “Heavyweights, probably. You know – Meg type.”

Sam winced when he heard the name. “They’ve got preferences and they’re too proud to change them.”

“Something like that,” Dean said. “What are the odds those three are Bruce’s newest and bestest friends?”

Sam gave a crooked smile. “No betting there.”

“Gotta wonder where Bruce is if the three musketeers are down here, getting a drink.”

“You want to find out?” Sam offered. “We might get lucky.”

“Sure, let’s do it.”

They took the elevator to the fifth floor and found two women loitering about the hallway. One was in a hotel uniform and the other was sporting a con t-shirt.

Dean made a point of stepping out the elevator and then saying, “This isn’t our floor, sis.”

Sam rolled his eyes but said nothing. Instead, he pressed the door button closed. “Guard dogs?”

“Definitely,” Dean answered. “Ugly little things, too.”

“You can see them as demons? When did that happen?”

“Right before Detroit,” Dean confessed. “I thought I was having a breakdown or something.”

Sam didn’t say a word. He understood what Dean meant. “So, low-level?”

Dean nodded. “Definitely. Which means the three downstairs can order other demons about.”

Sam couldn’t find a hole with that assumption. “Want to meet with our otherworldly allies?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They found Aziraphale and Bobby drowning in books and scrolls while Crowley was fiddling with a piece of equipment no bigger than Sam’s cell. The demon attached it to a docking station linked to a slim laptop neither Sam nor Dean recognized.

Suddenly, a voice flooded the room. Crowley mouthed ‘Bruce’ as a way of explanation.

“That sounds great. Good to know it all worked out.” There was a notable length of silence before Bruce laughed softly. “Oh yeah? So, how cute is she? By the way, is she even legal? From the pics I got last night she looks like she’s still in high school.”

Sam blushed furiously when he realized the conversation was probably about him. Dean noticed it too and grinned unrepentently.

“That cute? Okay, definitely got to meet her then. Not every day you find a babe in a con.”

Sam haphazardly grabbed a book off the table and began flipping. To go undercover for the sake of a hunt was one thing, but listening to men get off on how he looked was another. Dean seemed to be sharing the same opinion also. In spite of his initial glee, Dean was now frowning as Bruce continued to talk about the pretty girl his friend met earlier.

“Dude’s definitely not getting any,” Dean grumbled out. “Why are we listening to this shit anyway?”

“Because we must,” Crowley replied primly. “We can’t afford to miss anything.”

Aziraphale peeked out from a tome the size of Madagascar and piped out, “But surely this isn’t necessary.”

“If it bothers you so much,” Crowley said with a roll of his eyes. He snapped his fingers and the volume died down noticeably. Sam gave a sigh of relief then turned his attention to the book in front of him. It was only then he realized he was reading what was equivalent to ancient pornography barely disguised as ‘ecstasies of saints’.

He closed the book, shuffled it to the bottom of the stack, and picked the one that spoke of dooms and prophecies regarding the end of times. That he could deal with, at least.

Dean ambled next to him and picked up a scroll. He unrolled it and read first two passages. “Why is this familiar?”

Sam took it. “It’s because we read it before in Detroit.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s that stupid poem.”

“Hmm, well … wait a minute,” Sam frowned and peered closer. “I remember reading something and thinking it was strange.”

“Strange as in ha-ha strange or strange as in our strange.”

“Strange as in out of place,” Sam answered. “Here’s the line that jarred me: Lest the Beginning and the End is entwined as thus, the cursed man shall live as one untouched by … the closest word is love.”

“That’s weird, all right,” Bobby tuned in. “Not something that goes in the way of Armageddon.”

“No, and I ignored it back then, but the poem stuck with me.” Sam forced himself to re-read the line. Then, he paid the same attention to the rest of the scroll. “I think it’s a prophecy about Armageddon, jut not the one we stopped in Detroit.”

“You’re thinking it’s about this one, then?” Bobby asked, his interest perked noticeably. Even Crowley was now paying attention.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I think this one’s about what’s happening now.”

“So, a prophecy about one of multiple Apocalypse ... s,” Dean stated. “Wow, that’s one big fucking mess.”

“Welcome to my world,” Crowley deadpanned. “This is just a regular day for us.”

Aziraphale gave a nod of agreement and added, “Though it looks contrived to you, it isn’t to us for we have been around for centuries. So, the unfolding events are the fruitions of centuries of involvement and … and…”

“Interfering with humanity,” Crowley added. “Putting our fingers where they don’t belong and generally mucking up things.”

“For the greater good,” Aziraphale corrected quickly.

“Of course,” Crowley agreed. “But it stands that this is … what shall I say? Natural course of things.”

Dean made a rude noise but didn’t say a word. Instead, he leaned closer and read Sam’s notes as he furiously laid out his ideas. “I don’t think that’s gonna work,” Dean said. “I know miracles happen but not even Lucifer can pull a second sun out of his fucking ass.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he looked at Crowley. He shook his head frantically even as the demon chewed on his lower lip, eyes narrowing into snake-like slits; his tongue slithering in and out only enforced the serpentine look.

Dean tipped his head and said, “Wait a minute. What if sun is spelled wrong?”

“You mean son?” Sam asked. He looked at the scroll and said, “So not two suns but two sons. That really does shift things. And you might just be right. English spelling wasn’t uniform until well into the nineteenth century.”

“So, you have to read the entire thing like it’s been spellchecked by a drunken frat boy,” Dean said. He clapped Sam on his shoulders. “Good times ahead, egghead.”

Sam moaned a little before dropping his head in despair. “Fuck me.”

“Why don’t you give me that,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been around that time, so I should have no problem reading it.”

Sam had little problem unloading the scroll onto the angel. Crowley smirked but said nothing until his device got his attention once more. “Our little apocalypse-prone friend has guests.”

A woman’s voice floated out. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, I definitely needed the nap,” Bruce replied. “Jason isn’t too pissed that I couldn’t make it, is he?”

“No, of course not,” the woman’s voice lazily coiled around the vowels, making Dean shudder out of arousal and fear. He looked at Sam and mouthed, ‘Demon’. “He’s worried that you’re ill because of the flight.”

“Just a little jet lag,” Bruce said. There was a strain in his tone that everyone listening picked up. Sam realized that even though Bruce wasn’t aware of his friends' true nature, his primal instincts have awoken and noted they were a threat: a big one.

“How about joining us for a bite? It’s time for dinner.”

Bruce’s agreement distinctly lacked enthusiasm, making Sam feel badly for the man. Dean gave a low whistle, signaling to Sam he was thinking the same thing.

There was some rustling noise then a click, indicating they had left the room. Dean dusted down his jeans and said, “That cup of coffee just made me hungrier. I’m going downstairs to have a bite to eat. Want to join?”

Sam stood up. “Yeah, time to meet our Bruce Lee.”

* * *

  
Dean slurped down the last of his juice. “Call me underwhelmed.”

Sam nodded in agreement but kept his focus on the salmon in front of him. Dean leaned back in his seat and looked around the restaurant. It was filled with con goers, talking to each other excitedly about their daily activities. In spite of what he considered dorky activities, Dean knew they genuinely enjoyed chatting about numbers and where they go, and why they put them there.

Dean startled in his chair when Sam kicked him under the table.

“What?” he barked out.

“The table just got bigger,” Sam whispered.

Dean took a glance at the table and noted two brutes sitting down with the four already eating their desserts. Understandably, the only human in the group didn’t look too happy with the new addition. Dean’s pity for the poor bastard grew as he watched Bruce shrink into his seat.

_Dude, why are you sticking around? It can’t be because of the girl. Sure, she’s a looker, but you know she’s bad news. So why are you still sitting there like a bucket of chum?_

Dean watched Bruce give a furtive look at his companions before pulling something out of his messenger bag: a misshapen book.

The demons surrounding Bruce stopped speaking and looked at the tattered object in unison. Dean noticed Bruce giving alarmed looks at his dinner companions, all who smiled before returning to their conversations. But their gazes kept sliding over to examine the newest addition to their table.

“No, Dean,” Sam hissed between his lips.

Dean slouched into his chair. Leave it to Sam to take the fun out of a hunt as big as this one. “I wasn’t going to do anything stupid. I just wanted to see what the goddamn thing looks like.”

“You can study it from here. I don’t want anything to freak out Lee’s psychotic friends.”

“The thing’s smaller than I expected,” Dean muttered. “I was thinking it’d be the size of a regular bible or something. It looks like a prayer book, actually.”

“Considering Elliot stitched the thing, it couldn’t have been that big.”

“Still, something that could end the world should be respectably sized, don’t you think?”

Sam couldn’t stop from smiling. Dean’s logic, though not very profound, was solid. “Yeah, agree with you on that.”

“There they go.”

Sam turned the water glass and saw in its reflection the entire table leaving with Bruce leading the pack, though hardly alpha material. Sam heard Dean’s chair scrape and turned to watch his brother approach the empty table. Dean neatly pocketed the woman’s wine glass into his jacket pocket.

With a sigh, Sam stood up and followed his brother. But not before pocketing a drinking glass of his own. They returned to Bobby’s room to find the rest of the team had ordered room service, and from the looks of the food, much better than what the hotel restaurant had given them.

"A demon used this to drink wine. Maybe one of you geniuses could hex her or something," Dean said as he put down the stolen glass on the coffee table. Then he added casually, "We also saw the book."

“What?” Bobby looked up from his coffee mug.

“Or what we think is the book,” Sam hurriedly corrected Dean before plonking down his stolen stemware. “But I think Dean's right about his assumptions. Lee’s demon escorts were mesmerized by it.”

“Did they touch it?” Crowley asked eagerly. “Did they try to take it from Bruce?”

“No, they didn’t,” Dean answered. “They were hypnotized by it, but no touching, no moving near the book. In fact, they stayed away.”

“That’s out of respect,” Crowley said. “And fear of influencing Lee in a negative manner.”

“Or positive,” Aziraphale added smugly.

“Neither in our case,” Crowley said. “There are enough on both sides who want Lee to succeed. And would go to any length to make sure he does.”

“What would happen if we just grab the fucking thing?” Dean asked.

“The demons will bring down the entire city out of petulance,” Crowley said with lot less enthusiasm. “And that’s the good news. The bad news would be they have enough power left to take out the entire western part of your country.”

“But with Lilith and Azazel gone … could they even do it?" Sam looked stunned by his own question.

“No, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try,” Crowley said. “You must understand, after Detroit, a lot of plans went awry and not just His. A lot of demons banked on the fact they were going to be freed from Hell and allowed to roam about, doing what pleased them.”

Dean shook his head. “And I honestly thought we were done with all this. Man, do I feel stupid.”

Aziraphale looked sympathetically at Dean and Sam who had had paled considerably while Crowley spoke. “I am sorry to say, after you folks had succeeded, things didn’t calm down. It’s gotten hotter, sort to speak.”

“Especially for you lot,” Crowley added.

Sam sank back into his chair, his dejection plain on his face. “I knew we were never going to be normal, but I thought it would be less fucked up than it used to be when Lucifer was free.”

Dean’s stony face didn’t reveal his disappointment, but the accusing silence told the angel and the demon how upset the oldest Winchester was.

Bobby blew a deep sigh and said, “Well, shit still stinks the same, good to know. Let’s see if we can find a way to fuck them up without having California come down around our ears.”

* * *

  
Bruce waved wildly at Miles who looked surprised by the vehemence in his greeting. But Bruce didn’t care: Miles meant he could get away from Jason and company. The desperate man knew he should be feeling bad that he was ditching a group of people who followed him to San Francisco at his urgings, but Bruce needed air to breathe: to feel _normal_.

Jason looked at Miles and gave a deprecating smile. “Is that your friend? The one who’s organizing the festivities?”

Bruce couldn’t take it any more. He turned to Jason and snapped, “Okay, maybe he’s not GQ cool like you but he’s a good guy, and he’s brilliant.”

Ash slithered her arm around Bruce’s waist and said, “Don’t mind Jason. He’s always twitchy after flying. We’ll leave now and make sure Jason’s in better mood tomorrow.”

To Bruce's dismay Kevin shook his head and said, “You know what? I’ll stay. Besides, Miles could update me with what’s happening. That way we could hit the ground running tomorrow.”

And his disappointment grew: Miles didn’t react well to Kevin’s presence as Bruce had hoped he would. The general manager for the con’s more popular activities remained stiff and terse as he discussed Kevin's duties, such as registration and handing out information packets to the people attending the rooms assigned to him. Kevin agreed to take on the responsibilities with little fuss, but Bruce suspected barely-held contempt on Kevin’s part. Miles must have felt the same because the conversation went downhill even quicker than before.

After few minutes of stilted exchange of pleasantries, Kevin excused himself. Miles watched him saunter away and rumbled, “Bit of a prick, isn’t he?”

“He’s not, really,” Bruce countered weakly. “His brother Jason is pretty cool.”

"If you say so,” Miles said. “I hope he and his brother will be bit more reasonable tomorrow. Their attitude needs some adjusting, if you get my meaning.”

“They’ll be fine,” Bruce said, all the while knowing it wouldn’t be.

 _Why in hell did I bring them?_ Bruce thought as he and Miles talked about mundane things. _What possessed them to think I’m their buddy? Are they playing some fucked up version of a dogfight?_

“Shit, there she is,” Miles hissed at him.

Bruce looked up and asked, “Who?”

“Sam,” Miles whispered while discreetly pointing at a girl getting out of an elevator. When Bruce spotted her skinny escort he had to quell back a laugh. The beanpole of a boy was walking like a sailor but his strut was completely ruined by the oversized motorcycle boots and bow-legged gait. All of which conspired to make him look like he had a long pole stuck up his ass.

“Is that her brother?”

“Yeah, the poor kid,” Miles said. “Got a bad kidney problem; has to take some serious meds for it. They must be making his life hell ‘cause he goes to bed at ten, sharp.”

Bruce felt genuine pity for the stranger. “He looks like he’s sixteen.”

“Nineteen, I think, or at least that’s what his file says,” Miles explained. “Oh, he won the lottery for the Deathmatch so you’ll be seeing him around a lot more.”

Bruce took another look at the two and felt a twinge of envy. For reasons he couldn’t explain he was jealous of Miles’ friendship with two _normal_ semi-hot geeks with mundane, human problems.

Miles made a weak hand motion and caught the attention of the two. “Make me look good, okay?"

Bruce grinned. “Sorry, can’t work miracles here.”

“Hey, how are you?” Miles asked, standing up from the table. “This is an old friend of mine and someone you know, Bruce Lee.”

The Asian girl blinked and looked at Bruce with a disconcertingly calculating look. “Oh, you’re Bruce. We met on-line few months ago.”

“Really?” Bruce was intrigued.

“Yep, I went by the name of … Cas. But my real name’s Sam.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bruce said and shook her hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm, masculine even.

The girl turned on a high-wattage smile at Miles. Little wonder his friend was a bit dazzled by her. “Thanks for the notes you dropped off earlier. They were very helpful.”

“Yeah,” the brother said. “I was going to pull out of the Deathmatch until Sam told me what it was all about.”

Bruce smiled and said, “Glad to hear you’re going to participate. It’s a real hoot.”

“Cool,” the boy said, rather unconvincingly.

“See you two around,” Sam said with a farewell wave.

“Interesting pair,” Bruce said. “By the way, what’s the brother’s name? He never said.”

“Dean,” Miles answered. “In spite of his attitude, he’s not a bad kid.”

“I can see what you mean by him being sick,” Bruce admitted. “He looked uncomfortable in his own skin.”

“You noticed. By the way, don’t feel like you have to help him with the Deathmatch. I don’t want others to cry out favoritism later and have the shit hit the fan.”

“No problem. And, for your information, I wasn’t planning to do anything like that.”

“Good to hear,” Miles said.

Bruce returned to his room soon thereafter. He looked at the various emails sent to him while he was out and smiled. His good mood, which had rotted away, returned full force as he read the missives with their ho-hum but humorous statements. After a full hour he returned to his favorite hobby: decoding the book he had purchased while touring England.

He flipped through the various pages and noted how detailed the work was. Bruce had very little information on the Elliot woman but he could see she was indeed very gifted with the needle. He was examining the edge of a page when he spotted a slight change in the color of the threads. He stopped and looked closer with a magnifying glass.

A pattern all but jumped out of the page of silk cloth. He stopped and recounted the stitching. Then, with extreme care, he started counting the stitches around some of the more interesting figures on the page. Two hours later, Bruce had more than a pattern. He had an entire sentence.

He sat back and shook his head in awe. “Holy shit,” he whispered. Bruce then studied the following pages and realized there were more patterns: all different but now that he had deciphered one set, he was able to see others clearly.

Bruce took a deep breath and read out loud the passage. “Darky harky, set all malarkey.”

_Well, that was fucking weird, even from those times. Exactly how much was she tossing back when she did this?!_

Still wondering what the passage meant, Bruce put the book into the room's safe and got ready for bed, not at all suspecting what he had set in motion.

* * *

  
**Grand Canyon, Arizona**

Arthur Becker loved mountains in spite of living within driving distance of the Alps. It was kind of a requisite for an Austrian. And yet, his long-time lover, Daniel Hoffman who had grown up in the same town as Arthur, had a completely different view of rocky white peaks. He _loathed_ anything above the seaboard. However, even he had to agree with Arthur that the Grand Canyon was definitely worth the plane ride and the various hassles of trans-Atlantic travel.

The two parked at the designated lot and dutifully made sure they had all the necessary equipment to take pictures of the spectacular sunrise at the Grand Canyon.

After managing to elbow in a respectable space at the viewing ledge, they hunkered down. Arthur handed over a thermos of dark bitter coffee that Daniel liked so much. And the two waited in companionable silence.

The first color of pink breathed into life as the sun began to rise. There were gasps of wonder and whispers of respect and awe as the pink turned bloodier.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Arthur asked his lover who gave a miserable sniffle and snuggled deeper into his down jacket. “Don’t be such a child! It’s…”

A loud noise reverberated all around the group, as if someone coughed from the bottom of the Canyon and the sound resonated all the way up. Arthur frowned and peered into his camera to get a better look. Suddenly, there was a bright flash of white and Arthur cried in shock before closing his eyes. When he opened them, the Grand Canyon was no more.

There was a smooth, flat surface where one of the world’s greatest wonders used to be. Arthur slowly leaned over the rails and looked down to see an ant spinning about, confused as the humans above him.

“Oh my God,” Arthur whispered.

Daniel grunted and looked over the rails to see flat, dusty nothing. With a tired sigh and a thundering sniffle, he turned to his lover and asked, “Can we go back to the hotel now? Please?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters discover the plural term for the Apocalypse. They are not amused. Neither are Crowley and Aziraphale who must help them stop all of God's creation from becoming undone.

Dean violently woke up in pain. It was as if something had slammed his head against the headboard.

As it turned out, something had. Or, more specifically, someone.

Sam firmly cuffed Dean on the head for the second time before yelling, “Wake up! You have got to see this!”

Dean sat up, glaring at his brother. “What the fuck?”

Sam’s reply was to turn on the television.

“I am reporting live from Grand Canyon. Or what used to be the Grand Canyon. Believe it or not, the flatlands behind me used to be one of the most beautiful…”

Dean was wide awake by the end of the newcast, which was followed by another regarding the sudden disappearance of the greatest natural wonder in the United States.

“Fuck this noise,” Dean snarled as he buttoned up his shirt. “I’m gonna _kill_ whoever did this!”

“That would be Bruce,” Sam said.

Dean’s eyes widened in understanding. “Oh shit, shit shit – he’s figuring it out?”

“Obviously,” Sam said, pointing at the television screen.

“So, with each page he’s … what? Erasing a natural wonder?”

“Or doing a Copperfield on a parking lot in New Jersey; we don’t know,” Sam countered, frustration coloring his voice. “The reality is we can’t take the risk of waiting around for him to figure out a second page.”

“Jesus,” Dean whispered. “Okay, no more Mr. Nice Guy. We’re going to grab the goddamn thing today.”

* * *

  
Crowley buried his face in his hands as the voice droned on.

“So, the Great Reckoning has begun, Crowley! Rejoice! For our time, though, is no more, retribution and revenge will be ours!”

“Yes, of course,” Crowley said dully. “I am very enthused by our progress.”

"Is it not grand that a mere pitiful human – a rat – would undo all of God’s creation? Is that not the greatest of ironies?”

“The greatest,” Crowley echoed in a hollow voice. “Excellent, in fact.”

“Crowley, why do you sound disappointed? I am beginning to wonder about your commitment to our cause.”

“No doubts here, my lord Baalberith,” Crowley answered without much enthusiasm. “Just that I am a bit tired with all the work I've done. I hate to speak ill of my compatriots, but some of them are quite exhausting. Vexing, to be honest.”

There was a pregnant pause before the voice intoned hesitantly, “I see. Well … things are very hectic down here, and we did not have enough time to vet the list of volunteers. So, there is a slight chance some of your fellow helpers are not the sharpest of the lot.”

“I understand, of course, and I will make do. You can count on me.”

“Good to hear, Crowley.”

The iTouch reverted back to what it was piping out before Hell interrupted.

_Welcome to the jungle, we've got fun and games…_

Crowley sighed in relief. At least Baalberith hadn't changed his playlist. Crowley adored Guns N' Roses. They were guaranteed to annoy anyone within earshot, no matter which country he was in.

The demon stood up from the sofa, dusted off imaginary specks of dirt from his suit and made his way from the hotel restaurant to Aziraphale’s room. In spite of being on opposite sides of practically everything, the angel was a breath of relief when it came to dealing with whatever was at hand. Or ready to explode on a moment’s notice.

He was about to press the button on the elevator when a familiar crawling sensation froze him. He tucked his hand into his breast pocket and pulled a small snake that was so poisonous, a single bite should send a human into spasms of agony. Annoyed by the sudden change in temperature and comfort, the viper lashed out and bit Crowley. It took less than a moment for the snake to die.

Crowley peered at the dead creature and realized it looked familiar. His iTouch had the same colors and pattern on its shell. He shoved the thing back in his pocket and decided that he needed to visit Aziraphale _now_.

He was greeted with horrified screams even as he materialized in the angel’s room. Aziraphale looked at Crowley suspiciously.

“It’s not me,” Crowley snapped. “I think our Bruce boy is up at it again.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale whispered.

* * *

  
Bruce studied the ceiling, willing himself to go back to sleep. It didn't happen at five or at five-fifteen.

_Fuck it_ , he thought and got dressed. He went online to locate the nearest Starbucks which was only two blocks away. The walk was quite nippy but he didn't care. After purchasing a muffin and a mocha from a decidedly creepy-looking barista, Bruce returned to his room, eager to get working on the book again.

And this time, it was a lot easier to decipher Elliot's work.

_This looks like … a ‘F’ maybe? And that … a ‘Y’?”_

“Malloy, falloy, say hey, ahoy?”

Bruce rested his very weary head on his arms and slowly moaned. “Lady, I haven't a fucking clue what you were putting in your mead, but that must have been some good shit.”

If he’d checked inside his jacket pocket right then, he would’ve been greeted by a small harmless looking spider, and wouldn't have given it much thought as he brushed it away. However, Bruce would've been much more cautious if he knew that his cell had been transformed to a brown recluse.

Looking for a more comfortable surrounding, the venomous spider leisurely crawled out of the jacket and scuttled into an air vent.

As Bruce wondered whether he should continue or not, he heard screams echo out in the hall.

_I see people are starting to party earlier and earlier. Maybe I should join them._

He got up and opened the door to be greeted by the sight of two grown men running down the hall, still in their bedclothes. They were screaming on top of their lungs with their arms wildly waving over their heads. Bruce looked down the other way and noted nothing special.

_Someone must have put one on them. Or maybe spiked their morning coffee or something._

The elevator rang and Jason stepped out, yawning. He looked down the hallway and immediately spotted Bruce. “Oh, hey, are you feeling all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Bruce asked weakly.

“I heard from the front desk that some joker spiked the coffee pots with a mild hallucinogenic. It’s a zoo in the lobby.”

Bruce sighed and shook his head. “Okay, that sounds terrible but now it makes sense.”

“Do you want me to get anything for you? You sounded peaked yesterday.”

Bruce smiled and shook his head. “No, I feel better. I think I just needed some extra sleep.”

“Well, if you really are feeling better, you’re more than welcome to join us.”

His previous unease all but forgotten, Bruce nodded quickly; for some reason he didn’t want to be alone. “Sure, let me get dressed.”

In his eagerness, Bruce didn’t see the look of frustrated annoyance flitter by Jason’s face. He stormed through his closet, pulled down a flannel shirt and a pair of worn jeans. Then, as an afterthought, he grabbed his bomber jacket and laptop. For reasons he didn’t understand, Bruce wanted to stay networked with his friends.

As he suspected, Jason and company had gotten one of the penthouse suites overlooking San Francisco. The view was spectacular, but the breakfast spread on the dining table was even more awesome. Fruits, various breads and pastries, and hot drinks ranging from tea to cocoa littered the table from corner to corner.

Ash strolled out of a room, wearing a silk nightie and a robe that didn’t cover much. She smiled and blew a kiss to Bruce. “Someone’s been a very busy boy,” she drawled, pouring out a cup of coffee.

Bruce flushed. Ash had made it sound like he’d been at it all night with three she-boys and a goat. “I was up early,” he muttered around a mouthful of hot, flaky croissant. “So I read a little.”

Jason exchanged knowing looks with Kevin, and Ash leaned over to kiss Bruce on his forehead, giving him an eyeful of her generous bosom. “That’s my boy,” she said before sitting on a sofa and flipping through Vogue.

“We were worried you’d come down with something,” Kevin said. “We heard yesterday there’s a nasty bug floating about.”

Bruce looked at Kevin. “Really? Man, this con’s turning into a nightmare.”

“I wonder if it hasn’t been canceled, especially considering the fiasco with the coffee,” Kevin agreed. “I think I’ll go downstairs and see if they’re curtailing some of the events. It would be disappointing, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

With that Kevin waved goodbye and left. Jason studied the packet Miles had given him and said, “This Deathmatch sounds quite exciting. How many participants?”

“Sixteen at the start,” Bruce answered. “It’s awesome.”

“How long does it take?” Ash asked.

“One hour, at most. Speed is key.”

“Cool,” Jason said. “If it’s still on the menu, I think I’ll watch. Maybe make the stakes more interesting.”

“Um … gambling isn’t allowed,” Bruce said hesitantly, “not that the issue ever came up.”

Jason grinned. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Ash added,” Don’t mind him. Jason loves to take risks, so it’s easy for him to think of things in gambling terms.”

“Oh, I see,” Bruce said weakly. Suddenly the uneasy feeling he had whenever he hung around with them returned and with a vengeance. He looked out the window, wishing he’d never accepted Jason’s invitation to join.

“You still look tired,” Ash offered as a truce. “Why don’t you go back to your room and take a nap? I’m sure your friends will contact you if they need you downstairs. And we’ll call you if Kevin comes back with something new.”

Bruce barely hid his sigh of relief and with a brief ‘thank you’ he left quickly. Ash watched the door close and looked at Jason whose eyes turned red.

“He’s going to be such a bad, bad boy,” she said, her own eyes turning blacker than the darkest sin of the human heart. “And I can just _eat_ him up for it.”

“We should roast him first,” Jason said. “You never know what these rats pick up nowadays.”

Ash laughed: a blithe happy sound that had not a trace of edge or hatred.

* * *

  
Crowley stared wide-eyed at Dean who was completely occupied with wrapping bandages around his left ankle. Before he could give a word of advice, Aziraphale materialized next to him, looking slightly rumpled.

Bobby looked up at the angel then turned his attention back to the severed head of the serpent that almost killed Dean. “It's getting worse.”

“I’m guessing the time for tact is over,” Crowley said. He turned to Aziraphale and muttered, “I’m sorry, Angel, but it has to stop, now.”

Sam stood up, checked his gun, then loaded a fresh clip. His lips were drawn so tightly that they were white. His eyes were burning though, even as he studied Dean’s pale and sweaty features. “You’re going to be okay?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, that was close, though.”

Sam closed his eyes and took deep breaths in order to calm himself.

Aziraphale whispered to Crowley, "What happened?"

"Dean's cell turned into some kind of a reptile," Crowley answered. "It bit him. Luckily, Sam knew a way to stop the poison from spreading. I managed to reverse whatever permanent damage that could have occurred."

"So, we go charging?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shook his head. "Sam called Miles. Turns out Bruce is downstairs in one of the meeting rooms."

Aziraphale sighed and loosened the knot of his tie. He then unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.

"What do you think you're doing?" Crowley asked.

"Just getting ready, I guess," Aziraphale answered. "It's been forever since I've had a physical confrontation with someone from Below."

"Oh," Crowley said softly. He took Aziraphale's tie and rolled it up before pocketing it.

"What are you going to do?" Aziraphale looked worriedly at his companion.

"I'm not sure," Crowley admitted, shame-faced and not a little afraid. "I didn't think it would end up this way."

"It is," Sam said brusquely. "We're going now."

Bobby took the worn backpack that was hanging from his wheelchair's handle and opened it. He pulled out small containers of lighting fluid and tossed them to Dean and Sam along with lighters. "Only way to be sure," he said. He then took out hand grenades and studied them.

"Can't use those," Deans said. "No guarantee the entire book's going to be destroyed. We're in trouble even if half a page survives."

"Besides, fire purifies," Sam added.

Bobby nodded and put the hand grenades on the coffee table. He then systematically began checking all his arsenal.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked. "You can't think you're going with us."

"Like hell I'm not," Bobby said. "I might not be able to run down demons but I can still rip through an exorcism."

Sam wanted to disagree but a quelling look from Dean kept him quiet. He looked at the man who had such an integral part of his life; it was then Sam realized that his love for the surrogate father dictate that he must respect Bobby's wishes, even if it meant he was going to his death.

Clamping down on the desire to shove Bobby into a closet, Sam looked at Dean who was dry-eyed and focused on the task ahead. But the slight trembling in Dean's hands told Sam how affected his brother was about Bobby's choice.

They got into the elevator when Crowley shook his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I can't. I just can't do this."

Aziraphale patted him on his shoulder. "Don't worry. Go. You couldn't fight this battle anyway, Crowley. It isn't yours to begin with."

Crowley dared not raise his face to see if the humans in the compartment agreed with him. Instead, he just nodded and disappeared.

"What would've happened if he went against hell's plans?" Sam asked.

"It's not that he's scared, exactly," Aziraphale answered. "You see, they're family to him. And though you can hate and despise your family ... it's impossible for Crowley to so openly betray them. Without Hell, he'd be lost, Samuel. In a way, it'd be like Falling again."

Aziraphale glanced at the humans and was surprised to note how accepting they were of Crowley's choice. In fact, Sam looked like he understood. Only too well.

The elevator doors opened to an vacant lobby.

Dean gave a crooked smile and said, "Time to nut up or shut up."

Sam rolled his eyes and gave a plaintive sigh. "I fucking hate that movie."

"That's because you wanted to see _Time Traveler's Wife_ instead," Dean quipped.

"Will you two geniuses just give it a rest?" Bobby growled. "Jesus, were you this bad in Detroit?!"

Aziraphale missed Crowley very, very much.

* * *

  
Since the meeting was having a twenty-minute break, Bruce decided to work on yet another page. It took him only ten minutes this time. With a wild grin, he whispered, "Handy, dandy, bye all, Nancy."

For a moment he felt a slight tingle. Then he heard Kevin, Jason, Ash and few others in the room sneeze in unison. He glanced at his friends and saw them throwing confused looks at each other. Bruce then caught one of the contestants staring at Ash with lust and unabashed awe. He had to quell the desire to bonk the guy's head with his cell and yell, "Run!"

Smiling at the thought, he returned to his book when the door burst open and rejects from a _Mad Max_ movie rushed in. One of the guys took only a moment to scan the room before spotting him. The wolfish smile on the man's face loosened something in Bruce's bowels and he felt the sudden need to use the toilet.

"Hey!" the man shouted, "name's Dean! And we need that fucking book!"

The giant behind him looked both dismayed and yet completely unsurprised by the outburst. Then, to make the entire scene even more surreal, a man in a wheelchair came up from behind them along with someone who looked like a pediatrician nearing retirement.

It only took a moment for Bruce to realize that though the face was unfamiliar, the voice wasn't. Dean sounded exactly like the kid Miles had introduced only yesterday.

"Well, well, well," Ash drawled out as she stood up. "If it isn't the Four Musketeers."

Bruce decided it was time to step in and end the madness. "I don't know what in hell is going on, but you guys better stop before I call the police!"

Ash shoved him into his chair. "Shut the fuck up, child." She turned to the men and said, "Sorry, he is rude but then children are invariably."

Dean ignored her completely and looked at Bruce. “We need that book you’ve got in your hands. We don’t want to hurt anyone else. We just want that goddamn book.”

Bruce was about to cheerfully give it to the armed robbers when Ash slapped him hard enough to scramble him out of his seat.

“Stay,” she drawled then added, “good dog.” With a beatific smile Ash returned her attention to the men. “Where are my manners? Everyone calls me Ash, but you may know me as Ashtoreth.”

“Goddess of war and lust?” Dean commented, paling badly. He noticed the stunned look from his companions and Ash. Irate, he yelled, “What? I read too!”

Bruce had enough. He checked his pockets to find his cell had disappeared. Ash or Ashtoreth, depending on the preference of psychosis, smiled and raised her hand. She narrowed her eyes and whispered hissing words.

Nothing happened.

Ash’s face whitened in anger as she received surprised looks from Jason, and Kevin who raised his own hand and whispered another bizarre string of sounds.

As before, nothing happened.

Dean, who looked poised for blows, slowly uncoiled and looked at the giant behind him. “What’s going on?”

The response was a shrug and a shake of the shaggy head. The con participants who had crowded against the walls watched the entire thing unfold with growing curiosity.

Kevin snarled and concentrated harder to no avail. There was a titter behind him then a male voice piped out, “Dude, you suck.”

Bruce realized then everyone else thought this entire thing was staged. Only he knew that the shit had hit the fan and was currently painting the walls. In the following moments it became common knowledge. Kevin whirled around to face the person who had mocked him. He spotted the smirking face and marched towards the guy. On his way, he grabbed a laptop, which he used to smash open the man’s head. Blood, brain matter, and bits of bone flew everywhere.

The screaming began immediately.

Kevin’s murderous act triggered the robbers to rush into the room. Ash turned to the crowd and shouted, “Kill them!”

Seven people broke from the huddling mass and charged. Bruce snapped up the book from the table and tried to run for it. Ash grabbed him by the back of his neck and bounced his head against the table twice. Bruce slid to the ground, unable to focus on anything save the pain raining down from his head to his body.

Ash tried to grab him again but Dean slammed into her, and the two tangled over the table and onto the floor. The tall guy looked at the man in the wheelchair and shouted, “Bobby, what’s going on?!”

“The jackass must have read something from the book and fucked something up!” was the furious answer.

“Sam, some help here?!” Dean roared when he was tackled by two more people besides Ashtoreth.

Sam charged in and took down two men on his way to Dean. It was amazing to watch: he swung once, knocking down one guy and gave a front kick that slammed the second attacker over a table and onto the wall. That guy was completely out for the count. The first one rolled on the floor, screaming while cradling his jaw.

One of Ashtoreth’s friends tackled the crippled thief and the two rolled to the floor as the wheelchair collapsed under them. They began immediately exchange blows, and though the older one was handicapped, it was obvious the disability affected only his legs as he had no problems parrying blows while kidney punching the guy on top of him.

Dean managed to wriggle free from three men and grabbed Ashtoreth by her throat. She gave a scream of inhuman hatred and clawed at his hands as he slammed her against the floor until her eyes had a dazed look.

The door to the convention blew open and a man looking like an out-of-luck tax accountant ran in. He shouted, “Dean! Sam!” before grabbing the man off of Bobby. “I can’t…”

“We know!” Dean yelled back. He whirled around, headbutted a man, and then just for hell of it he kicked the guy between the legs.

Bruce looked at the mayhem unfolding around him then at the book. Suddenly, a shadow covered him and he slowly looked up in mortal fear. It was the pediatrician. The man’s face was freckled with blood but the gore didn’t seem to affect him at all. He kneeled down and gently said,

“The book has to be destroyed. It’s evil, Mr. Lee. Look around – this is all happening because of that book.”

“How?”

“Some things were never meant to be seen by human eyes. Please, Mr. Lee, let’s put an end to all this.”

As if to emphasize the man’s point, the tax accountant flew over Bruce’s head, followed by a woman armed with a cordless mouse and an UGG boot.

Bruce shoved the book at the man’s hands. “Jesus, stop this!”

The stranger smiled, it was both beautiful and sad. “Thank you.” He scrambled away, holding the book tightly against his chest.

“Stop him!” Ashtoreth screamed shrilly. “Stop the angel!”

Bruce felt a small frisson of energy when he let go of a book. It was as if he had suddenly snapped awake from a drug-induced fuzzy headedness. His first thought was _angel? What angel? How fucked up is she, exactly?_

The pediatrician was tackled from behind but the tax accountant came to his rescue, allowing the pudgy man to slither out from under the dog-pile. Dean rushed to him, pulling out a small tin of what looked like a lighter fluid.

The pediatrician gave a hail mary pass, which worked. Dean caught the book, doused it, and then tried to set it on fire with a lighter. Unfortunately, he didn’t succeed as Jason bit him on the joint between the neck and shoulder. Blood spurted out, garishly painting both Jason's and his victim's faces.

“Dean!” screamed Sam who came charging at top speed even with a fully-grown man wrapped around his left leg, actually gnawing at his calf through his jeans.

Sam punched Jason on both his kidneys before ripping him off of Dean. The injured man toddled once before regaining his balance and his focus. He relit the lighter and this time he was successful. With a triumphant, “Fuck you!” to his attackers, presumably, Dean lit the book. It exploded but the wounded psycho held on, even with the flames dangerously licking close to his fingers.

This wanton destruction ended the various gladiator duels in the room. Ash, Jason, Kevin, and their comrades froze as they witnessed the book turn into dust.

Dean looked up with what Bruce could only describe as a shit-eating grin and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building."

Ash launched herself wordlessly but was stymied by what seemed like an invisible wall. Bruce looked around and spotted the pediatrician who had, in the few seconds he wasn't being watched, sprouted wings. And not like Victoria's Secret angel wings either. No, these suckers were _huge_ ; easily fifteen feet across and at least seven feet in height. And they were so bright that Bruce found it impossible to stare for long.

"Oh..." the man said as he noticed his new appendages. "Oh, I see. Well." His face scrunched up in deep thought before saying, "I guess the Bering Sea will have to do."

And that was all the warning everybody in the room got before Ash and her maniacal group evaporated into thin air. Bruce was about to congratulate the man when the world turned soft grey before his eyes.

Then, all was peaceful black.


	6. Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters discover the plural term for the Apocalypse. They are not amused. Neither are Crowley and Aziraphale who must help them stop all of God's creation from becoming undone.

Aziraphale entered the shabby motel room to discover both Dean and Sam reading their laptops while Bobby watched CNN on the decrepit television.

"They're still claiming it was carbon monoxide poisoning?" he asked hopefully.

"Yep," Bobby answered. "Looks like."

Dean shook his head in wonder and disgust. "How can anybody who was in that room believe such a shitty lie?"

"The other choice would be to admit that there was an apocalyptic fight featuring a winged man who was also an angel," Sam supplied. "That would guarantee ninety day observation at the local psych ward, so yeah: carbon monoxide poisoning.

"Besides, you should be grateful. Grand Canyon's back and so are cell phones."

"Human beings aren't trained to deal with the supernatural," Aziraphale reasoned. "Not usually, anyway. Oh, Crowley told me with utmost confidence that Ashtoreth and her goons won't be troubling you any time soon. From what he's heard, her and merry gang have been assigned to administrative duties, probably for eternity."

Bobby wheeled out from next to the sofa then parked himself in front of Sam and Dean. "For the love of God, please try to stay out of trouble for at least a week, okay? The last thing you two need is to get your faces plastered all over the news."

"Consider it done," Sam said. "We'll be laying low for a while."

Dean nodded though with markedly less enthusiasm. "Call us when you get back to the yard."

"I'm not a child," Bobby snapped then, in a much gentler tone, said, "But I'll ring anyway."

"Thanks for everything," Aziraphale whispered as the man passed him.

"Do me a favor, don't call me or them ever again," Bobby said darkly. "Two apocalypse ... s? That's more than enough for all of us."

"I'll try my best," Aziraphale said.

"By the way, where is Crowley?"

"Hiding," the angel answered with a sigh. "He's very ashamed of himself right now."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "My God, a demon with a fragile ego."

Aziraphale smiled. "Crowley is definitely not like his brethren."

"Take care," Bobby said. "Good luck with everything."

"Thank you, and I will."

Aziraphale gazed out the window, watching the man move about his van, deftly hoisting himself into the driver's seat with its modified controls and geegaws.

"He really is remarkable," Aziraphale muttered. "One of a kind. No wonder he's so favored."

Dean made a rude noise and looked sarcastically at the angel. "Sorry, whenever one of _us_ is favored by one of _you_ , the poor bastard's screwed sixty-seven ways to Sunday."

"Dean!" Sam said, looking shocked and ashamed by his brother's outburst.

Aziraphale didn't take any offense. "Oh, I didn't mean me. I meant Him," he said, pointing his finger upwards.

Dean's eyes widened considerably. "Excuse me? How could you possibly know that?"

"I'm an angel, Dean Winchester," Aziraphale replied with some asperity. "I _know_."

"What about me?" Sam asked in a wavering voice.

Now it was Dean's turn to look outraged. "Sam! What the fuck?! Why do you even care?!"

"Because of what I did," Sam answered weakly. "Because I let Lucifer free and he killed hundreds and hundreds of people."

Dean looked genuinely appalled by Sam's distress. "How many times do I have to tell you that wasn't your fault?! You didn't know!"

"Does that matter?" Sam asked both his brother and the angel in the room.

Aziraphale studied the brothers before carefully saying, "There were two men in God's house. One was a self-righteous soul who practiced all the laws of the land and thus believed himself deserving of God's favor. The other was a man who believed himself a sinner and yet he prayed for his Father's mercy every day. God chose to accept one man into his embrace, and it wasn't the one who believed he was in the right.

"It's in the Bible, Samuel Winchester. Luke, to be exact."

Sam blinked furiously before looking down at his laptop. Dean did the same.

"Do you honestly believe my Father wasn't present in this debacle?" Aziraphale smiled gently. "A demon told me what was happening with the Stitched Words. Then, the very same demon, who should've by all accounts worked with his kind, recommended you two. And you two brought in Bobby and later Castiel: an angel not even the most powerful of the heavenly hosts could locate.

"Trust me, you were never alone. Not even for a moment."

Aziraphale closed his eyes and for a second Dean and Sam saw him as he truly was: slightly rumpled creature blessed with mild countenance and wings bright with goodness and patience.

"Thank you," Aziraphale said. "And, like Bobby said, I hope you two will never see me again."

And they never did. But, once in a while, the angel would peek in to make sure the Winchesters were 'rolling along' as the Americans would put it, doing what they were meant to do: beat down evil and generally raise good old-fashioned mayhem along the way.

**The End**


End file.
